Her Sister's Gift Read online

  She got Isa to sit beside her at the table and she opened up the book, turning the pages over carefully. In neat black ink and pencil, Isa read recipes for soufflés and puddings, roasts and stews, instructions on how to dry herbs and which ones complemented which dishes. Some had been written in directly and others were on different paper, pasted in to the book.

  “It’s amazing, Mrs Roberts.”

  “And this one is for you. It’s time you were thinking about your future. You’ll be in charge of a kitchen yourself one day, so here’s a book to get you started.” She passed into Isa’s hands a large blue bound book. Inside, each page was ruled with faint blue lines, ready to be written on.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs Roberts.”

  “You make sure to put in there every little thing you learn. It all mounts up. Every recipe or hint on how to do something. It becomes your very own manual, unique to you.”

  In her own peaceful room in the late autumn evenings Isa could rest briefly, read over letters from Chrissie and Margaret, and write replies to them. There were always plenty of tales about the staff to tell and descriptions of the grand rooms in the house and new recipes she was learning. She wished she could convey to them the strange accents that surrounded her but she had no idea how to write the London twang on to the page. She contented herself with trying to mimic it in her head, ready to reproduce it when they were next face to face. And now there was her own kitchen book, where she could write up the recipes or what she had observed during the day that she did not want to forget.

  10

  One Wednesday evening in December 1915, just as she was finishing storing leftover dishes from the family’s dinner in the cool pantry, Elsie came into the kitchen wearing her shawl, ready to go out.

  “Isa,” she said excitedly, “I’m going to a séance.”

  “You’re going where?”

  “To a séance. You know. You sits round a table ’olding ’ands while a medium tries to contact the spirit world.”

  “You mean the spirits of dead people?” Isa asked incredulously, never having heard of such a thing.

  “Yes. Joanna Foster from the staff at number four’een has been and she says Mrs Forpe, the medium, is really good. Joanna’s been twice and Mrs Forpe put ’er in touch wiv ’er grandmovver and uncle. The messages she got from ’em were really comforting. Why don’t you come? Joanna says the h’atmosphere is unlike anyfink else. Do come. You’re all done ’ere. It’ll be such fun.” Elsie was putting on gloves and checking her purse.

  There were strange, powerful stirrings in Isa at the thought of contacting those she’d lost. What would it be like to receive a message from her mother that she was all right now, that she was with her baby boy and Eliza and they were all happy, no longer weak, ill or maimed? Longing filled her as she allowed herself to feel the yearning for that contact and that reassurance. Suddenly this yearning was replaced with an icy chill that crept through her chest like a fog and her mind was flooded with dark pictures of her mother sick and despairing, her stillborn brother in the towels and blankets Jessie had wrapped him in. Then Eliza’s brutally mangled body on the tracks. And then, swiftly after these, a new and shocking picture of her father catapulted through the air and lying face down in a battlefield, with smoke and carnage all around him. Isa was gasping for air.

  “No. I won’t come, Elsie,” she managed to say. “That’s not for me.”

  “Oh well then. I’m off. I’ll tell you all ’bout it when I get back.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Elsie. If you don’t mind,” Isa replied stiffly.

  “Oh!” Elsie stopped and turned at the definite tone in Isa’s voice, thinking she was about to be lectured by a prudish colleague about why she was wasting her time on such nonsense, but when she turned and looked at Isa’s face, pale and drained of all colour, the line of her mouth and her wide eyes, what she saw was immense sadness and fear, not priggishness. Remembering what Isa had told them at the table about losing her mother, she suddenly realised Isa could not take the séance lightly as she could.

  She touched Isa lightly on her arm. “I’m sorry, Isa. I didn’t think.”

  Isa looked into Elsie’s face and saw the realisation written in her eyes. She said nothing but nodded acknowledgement of her colleague’s contrition. Elsie wondered anew at this serious-minded girl, who was sociable enough but who clearly kept much to herself. There were unhealed wounds there for sure.

  As Elsie left, Isa collapsed into a chair, her head in her hands, willing away the unbidden memories and shaking with fear at the image of her father, which had been as intense and real as the deaths of her mother and siblings she had actually experienced.

  *

  About six weeks into the new year, Mr Westfield, the butler came down to the kitchen asking for Isa.

  “Straighten your cap, Isa. Lady Tolquhoun wants to see you in her study on an important private matter. Nothing to do with your work.” He spoke softly and quietly and although she felt a little flustered she was not panicking. She followed him upstairs.

  At the door to the study he knocked.

  “Excuse me, Your Ladyship. I have Miss Dick here for you as requested.”

  “Ah yes, Westfield. Show her in please.”

  Isa quietly slipped into the room as Westfield retreated and closed the door behind her. She curtsied and nodded. “Your Ladyship.”

  “Come and sit down, Isa.” She indicated a tapestry-upholstered high-backed chair near the desk and her own chair. “Something arrived for you today, which I thought might best be opened here.”

  Isa sat on the edge of the chair, her heart beginning to beat faster. Lady Tolquhoun reached down to the salver where Westfield collected the post. She picked up what was clearly a telegram and handed it to her young employee.

  A telegram? Isa looked at the address. Her name was printed on it: Miss Isabella Dick. She could feel her pulse racing as she clumsily began to open it, a sense of dread gripping her.

  “We regret to inform you that Corporal John Dick of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers is reported missing presumed dead in the Dardanelles.”

  “Oh God,” Isa gasped. The terrible image of her father pushed through the air and lying face down in the burned, smoking grass, moaning incoherently came to her again and overwhelmed her. It was as if she was there, as if she was her father – seeing the war-torn landscape, smelling the burning, hearing the gunfire and explosions, feeling the impact of a force pushing her to the ground, winding her, feeling his confusion and the cold, clammy mud in her own face.

  Gradually the experience retreated and faded and she heard once again the tick of the French clock on the mantelpiece and Lady Tolquhoun’s anxious voice.

  “Isa? Isa, dear, are you all right?”

  Then Isa heard the tinkle of a bell and Mr Westfield returned to the room.

  “Some tea I think, please, Westfield.”

  “Right away, Your Ladyship.”

  Isa could not speak. She passed the telegram to Lady Tolquhoun so that she could read the news for herself.

  “Oh my dear, I am so sorry. I had a feeling this would not be good news. Mr Westfield sensibly thought to consult me before passing this to you. We did not want you to be on your own.”

  “He’s not dead,” Isa managed.

  “They do not know for sure, my dear,” Lady Tolquhoun said gently. “The phrase means he is missing and there is no body identified as his . . . yet.”

  “No. I mean I know he’s not dead.” Isa was definite.

  “What do you mean, Isa?”

  “I felt it. I saw it happen. He was forced to the ground by something but he’s not dead. I saw it a few weeks ago. I thought I had imagined it. But I just saw it again.”

  Lady Tolquhoun was completely at a loss. What was the girl talking about? She did not appear hysterical. On the contrary, she was very calm. Was this wishful thinking? Denial? She had already been through too much for one so young. But that was what this war was doing
. Her own dear Simon had been captured by the Germans and was being kept in God knows what kind of conditions, she knew not where. The girl clearly needed more than tea. So did she. She would get Westfield to bring some brandy.

  *

  Isa was allowed some time off away from the kitchen and she lay on her bed, the telegram still clutched in her hand, looking up through the skylight window at the clouds crossing the tiny patch of winter sky. Gradually her body calmed and her mind stilled. What was the meaning of these strange experiences of her father? The first time in the kitchen had been brief but intense and she’d cast it aside as born out of her grief, the reliving of her traumatic memories and her fear for her father’s safety. Today’s looked the same, but it was no longer something playing in front of her eyes like a film. Instead it was as if she and her father were one and the same. She had felt a huge blow in her back and legs, throwing her to the ground. She had felt the impact of the ground on her face, smelt the burning grass, heard the cries of other men, then confusion and blackness.

  She was calm now, and in this quiet state knew even more strongly that her father had not died on that battlefield. She now felt restless, as though she must do something. But what could she do? She knew from the newspaper reports that all the Allied troops were evacuated from the Dardanelles. The whole attempt to maintain the Bosporus and Black Sea as routes into Russia had failed. But the men had left. Just after Christmas.

  Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She took off her cap and apron, grabbed her shawl, pinned on her hat and ran downstairs. She had only one thought in her head: to get out and start looking for her father. She headed down the back stairs and crossed the kitchen, oblivious to Mrs Roberts calling after her. She was halfway down the street when Harry caught up with her.

  “Isa. Where do you fink yer going?” he asked her, as he stood himself in front of her, blocking her way.

  She made as if to pass him but he held her shoulders gently. “Isa what’s the ma’er? You can’t just take awf like this in the middle of your day’s work. What are you finkin’ of?”

  Isa was speechless and suddenly her legs gave way under her. Harry caught her under her arms and led her round to sit on the wall, leaning against the railings for support. He fanned her face with his hand. Slowly Isa recovered and her eyelids fluttered.

  “That’s it. You’ll be awlright now. I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

  Isa opened her eyes and saw Harry’s concerned face looking into hers. She gave him a slight push. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

  “I saw you runnin’ out’ve the kitchen like you was possessed or some’at so I came after you to see you was awlright. What’s happened? I ain’t never seen you like this.”

  Isa began to come to properly and realised she must have fainted. Why was she out on the street? Then it came back to her.

  “I have to get to the hospital,” she said.

  “You feelin’ poorly, like? ’Er Ladyship would send for ’er doctor if you wasn’t feelin’ well. You don’t have to go to the hospi’al.”

  “Not for me. It’s my father. He’s reported missing presumed dead. But I know he’s alive. He’ll be in one of the hospitals with the other troops back from the Dardanelles. I have to . . .”

  “Now hang on a minute. You can’t go round hospi’als looking for your farver by yourself. Do you h’even know which ’ospital you’re going to? Or how to get there? Look, we’ll go back to the house and I’ll ask her Ladyship if I can accompany you. I knows me way round. I’ll keep you right. Come on.” He tucked his arm under her elbow and helped Isa to her feet. Steadily they retraced their way back to the house, where he got Isa sat in the kitchen and then informed Mrs Roberts of what had happened. Then he headed upstairs to find Lady Tolquhoun.

  When she heard what had happened she was sympathetic and realised the girl would not be at peace until she had gone to the hospitals and checked for her father. She was not at all convinced about Isa’s certainty that her father would be found, but she knew the pain not knowing her own son’s whereabouts was causing her. So she gave permission for Harry to accompany her when not needed in the evenings and on their afternoon off. She consulted her husband regarding the most likely hospitals and gave a list of suggestions to Harry. Everyone dismissed the search as futile wishful thinking, but Elsie remembered a maxim of her mother – that it was as well to hope for the best until you knew the worst – and secretly hoped Isa would not be disappointed.

  11

  They had already been to St Thomas’s on Lambeth Palace Road, King’s College on Denmark Hill and St Gabriel’s in Camberwell. Harry decided they should head next for the Royal Victoria Patriotic in Wandsworth. Isa was bearing up remarkably, he thought. He could not believe what they were seeing as they walked through the hospitals. Isa had not been satisfied just to be told there was no record of her father’s admission; she had insisted on looking around the wards in case he could not be identified or had lost his dog tags. So they had gone through ward after ward of men with their legs in plaster, their arms in slings, men encased in bandages, men whose limbs had been amputated, men who had been burned, men moaning, men smiling, men trying to walk again on crutches. Each time she had asked, had anyone seen her father, John Dick, she had been met with silence or shaking heads. Some of the men who were further on the road to recovery smiled and tried to engage them in conversation, but Isa was on a mission; she was not there as a ward visitor.

  Now they’d turned on to Trinity Road and ahead of them, set in grassy lawns and fenced round with iron railings, lay the impressive Victorian building of the Royal Victoria Patriotic Hospital, which before the war had been an orphanage and was commissioned for use as a hospital the day after war was declared. The children were re-housed nearby and now their classrooms and dormitories were filled with beds for wounded servicemen. As they came through the gates, Isa gazed at the building with its towers and turrets and thought it had the look of a stately home about it. Only the windows were small and school-like. Above the central archway through which they passed to reach the entrance hall, there was a statue of St George killing the dragon, his sword held high, ready to strike. Isa shuddered.

  At the desk they spoke to a white-capped nurse who checked her records and told her that no John Dick had been admitted. “However, we do have a number of patients who have been victims of shell shock who came from the Dardanelles ships a few weeks ago. Many of them have not been able to give us their identity and their ID tags were blown off in the blasts. They are in ward ten upstairs and to the left. I should try there first.”

  Isa’s heart began to sing. This was sounding so hopeful. She practically ran up the staircase, with Harry hot on her heels. At the entrance to the ward they were met by a smiling nurse, the white bib of her apron printed with a large red cross to show she had been trained by the Red Cross as a volunteer.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Breathless after the quick climb, Isa told her, “We were sent here by the nurse on reception in case my father might be on this ward and not yet identified. You see, I had a telegram reporting him missing in action presumed dead in the Dardanelles, but I don’t believe he is dead. I feel sure he is alive.”

  The nurse touched her arm gently. “You’re not the first to feel that, my dear. Let’s go and have a look, shall we. What is your father like?”

  Isa felt suddenly calm in the presence of this nurse, who didn’t think she was mad or strange. She let her lead her on to the ward and answered her questions, all the while looking around her. But what a different series of sights met her eyes. The men on this ward were not all obviously injured. True, some had plaster casts and amputated limbs, but others sat drooping in chairs or propped on pillows in bed like dolls, lifeless, taking no notice of anything around them. Some sat staring straight ahead, eyes wide in terror, and yet they were safe in the hospital, away from the horrors of the battle. Isa felt a huge surge of empathy for these men. From the place deep within her,
scarred by Eliza’s grotesque death, she recognised the men’s pain for what it was: fear, shock and horror. Responses to what you should never have seen being imprinted on your mind and memory forever. Their bodies were safe in their beds, but inside their heads they were still in battle, surrounded by their injured friends, with death lurking everywhere they turned, just as she still stood by the railway track.

  Coming into the ward, she saw another man, supported by two orderlies, with his head bowed, his feet dragging along the floor while the orderlies tried to encourage him.

  “Keep your head up, now. Try to look ahead and let your legs lift your feet. Good man. One foot in front.”

  The man slowly moved his left foot and pushed it a little in front of him, then brought the other foot up alongside it. He raised his head and looked at Isa. Despite the dishevelled, greying hair and the brokenness of his large, strong frame, she recognised the bright-blue eyes of her father and saw the pain in them that had brought him to this state. She’d found him. She’d been right. He was alive – but only just.

  “It’s him,” she said to the nurse, her voice quivering. “This is my father, John Dick.”

  She walked towards him.

  “Faither. It’s Isa.”

  At the familiar sound of his daughter’s voice, John raised his head further and looked into her eyes. A smile flickered around his lips. “Isa?” He whispered. “Isa. Isa.” And then at the realisation of who this stricken young woman was, memories came flooding back and he collapsed in tears and sobs.

  The two orderlies helped him to his bed, and when he was comfortable Isa came and sat beside him and held his hand. Neither took their eyes off the other’s face. It was not a time for words. Relief, joy, pain and hope surged between them through the clasping of their hands and the steady gaze that locked them together in deep communion. John knew he was home at last. Isa knew her father was alive. They anchored each other amidst the confusion and horror.