In the summer of 1919, Flora signed up with an agency. She could not face returning to Kildowie. Better that they thought she was still under contract in London. With the epidemic of influenza at its height, there would be every reason for her to remain in service.
She wrote letters of condolence to the Armour-Brown family and was rewarded with a cutting from the Glasgow Herald, containing Kit’s glowing obituary. If there had been enough witnesses, The Reverend Kristian Carlyle DSO would have been awarded a VC for his valiant attempt to save a soldier in the mud of Passchendaele. Flora could hardly bear to read the rest. What a waste of a good life, she cried in anger. She still couldn’t believe he was dead.
There was only Hector Murray and his wife Rose left from their school days. Maudie remained in Switzerland. Flora felt isolated, sick of the smoky city, sick of living a lie, and took the first position offered to her, after Rose wrote her a glowing reference.
On the train from Paddington, Flora wondered if fleeing to a strange county was the best decision, but it was too late to change her mind. As they left the suburbs, the landscape changed from grey to green in a soft golden light. At each station she peered out at unfamiliar names. By the time she reached Cheltenham, half asleep, she felt ready to face her new employer.
A sleek limousine, with a chauffeur and maid, was waiting to escort her to Bordley Court, home of the Pickford family. The maid stepped forward to greet her. ‘Miss Garvie, welcome to Gloucestershire. We hope you will find your stay suits.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘It would help to know what I am to expect and who I will be nursing? This dreadful flu takes no prisoners but I hope there have been few losses here.’
‘No, miss, we are free of contagion. Miss Pickford does not require urgent nursing.’
‘But I thought I was here…’ Flora said.
‘Nothing like that, miss. It’s just that Miss Pickford needs constant care. She is an invalid confined to her room. The last nurse left under a cloud. Miss Pickford is very particular about her care.’
‘I see.’ Flora felt the first stirrings of unease as she peered out of the vehicle onto a picturesque scene of golden stone cottages, lush trees, fine churches with tall steeples, golden fields, horses pulling carts and quaint cobbled streets. It all looked so warm and inviting to eyes starved of sunshine and picture-postcard views.
They entered a long drive lined with oak trees and stopped outside a large stone manor house with mullioned windows, roses and borders full of flowers.
‘First, I must show you to your room, Miss Garvie. I’m Minnie Carver. I’m afraid there is no housekeeper. Mrs Fisher left a while ago but we do manage.’
‘Where are the rest of the Pickford family?’
‘The Miss has a brother, Lionel, who lives abroad. Miss Pickford lives alone now, since her father died. There’s Cook, Mr Barnes, the head gardener, the daily comes in from the village. There used to be lads to help but the war took them away and none came back, I’m afraid. My brother Bill was one of them.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Flora. ‘The war has a lot to answer for.’ She did not want to share her own sorrows but made her way behind Minnie up a grand oak staircase to a room at the back of the corridor looking out onto a walled kitchen garden.
Minnie saw her looking out of the window. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess. It’s a good job the Miss don’t see how it has fallen away but Barnes can’t get the help. He does his best. I hope this room suits.’ Minnie smiled.
Flora took in the large four-poster bed, the washstand, the wardrobe and well-upholstered armchair. It was private and she felt she could be comfortable here.
‘I put some flowers in a vase for you, but you mustn’t bring them near the Miss. They makes her sneeze and she don’t like the smell. I’ll leave you now to unpack. We won’t disturb Miss Pickford. She must have her afternoon rest. At four o’clock she has her tea, lots of sugar and fresh cake, being very partial to cake. Cook will send them up and you can meet her then. The Miss will give you her schedule. We keeps to a strict timetable, because she don’t like to be kept waiting.’
Flora nodded, her heart sinking. ‘What do I call her?’
‘Miss Pickford.’
‘But what’s her full name?’ Flora was curious.
‘Don’t rightly know, miss. It begins with a D, I think,’ came the reply.
‘Thank you.’ Flora dismissed the cheery Minnie with a smile, but inside she felt sick. One invalid and a houseful of servants, a rambling mansion with empty rooms. What on earth was she doing here, miles from anywhere?
At four o’clock Minnie was waiting with the tray. Flora hovered by the door while the maid set the table. The thick lace curtains were half drawn so the room was dim, the fire in the grate blazed although it was full summer.
‘Who is this?’ came a faint voice from the bed.
‘It’s Miss Garvie, the new nurse. She arrived on the twelve forty-five from London.’
Flora stepped forward to peer down at the woman in the bed. Her hair was covered with a lace cap, face flushed with the heat, the cheeks full, her chin plump.
‘Lift me up, girl. I can’t see you, slumped like this,’ came the first order.
Flora lifted her gently, plumping the pillows to form a back rest.
‘That’s enough, girl. I don’t want to catch a chill.’
‘Are there any notes to advise me of your condition?’ Flora asked, seeing a collection of bottles and pill boxes on the bedside table and reading the labels.
‘As you see, I must have my pills on the dot. I ring when I require my commode. The room must be kept warm, day and night. I require you to read to me before the light goes out. I will ring for bed-turning. My sheets are changed daily when I’m bathed. You will help me to sit on the daybed, where I take luncheon. I then walk round the room for a while before my afternoon rest.’
‘When do I help dress you?’
‘Never, I’m far too frail for that palaver. I do not entertain except for the vicar. Talking exhausts me. As you see, I’m resigned to my fate. I will not make old bones. Like my poor mama, I will fade into a shadow when the Good Lord calls me.’
Flora bit her tongue. ‘You look a long way from such a fate.’ She took her pulse. It was regular and strong. ‘Your flesh is pink, if a little plump. I do not detect any symptoms of such a decline.’
‘What gives you the right to question my diagnosis?’
‘Just experience… I was a nurse in the war,’ Flora replied. She was not going to take any nonsense from this woman. ‘I would advise you to have more time out of your bed. It weakens the limbs and encourages fluid on the lungs, sores on the skin. Let me see your buttocks.’
‘How dare you order me about. When I bathe, then you can examine me further. I find you very forward in your remarks, and Scottish, to boot.’
‘Correct, daughter of a shipbuilder, educated privately and four years under canvas. I’m a member of the Women’s Suffrage society and I know ill-health when I see it.’ Flora folded her arms in frustration.
‘You are very sure of yourself, young lady.’
‘Well, if I am to secure your recovery, I will devise a timetable of my own. It must be very boring to be confined to your room. How long have you been afflicted like this?’
‘The Pickfords are not a strong family. Mama died when I was ten, my brother left England for his health and Papa was sick for many years.’
‘You looked after him?’ Flora said.
‘With help, yes, but he was very demanding. I was exhausted and now the same fate awaits me.’
‘Only if you let it. I see no signs of an early demise. How old are you?’
‘Thirty years of age – but why do you ask such questions?’
Flora suppressed a gasp – the woman in the bed looked so much older. ‘Let me see your hair.’
‘I wear it cropped to keep me cool,’ Miss Pickford said.
‘If you had no fire and opened the window, you would be cool enough. Fresh air fills the lungs with good breathing. Who is your doctor?’
‘I got rid of him; nasty man wanted me to take walks and take a strict diet. I need the flesh around me to protect my bones.’
Flora tried not to smile. ‘So, you think a thick layer of blubber is a cure-all?’
‘I don’t like your tone, Miss Garvie. I’m not accustomed to being questioned by an employed nurse in such a manner. Perhaps it’s better you don’t unpack and take yourself back to London.’
‘Perhaps you are right, Miss Pickford. When people are dying in their thousands of this terrible sickness, I do not have time to waste on a perfectly healthy young woman who is convincing herself into an early grave. You are to be pitied for wasting the many years you have yet to live, when you could marry and bear children, do good to those around you. For those of us who have wealth, there are duties as well as privileges. To lie in bed and do nothing is death indeed. I do pity you though. I could help you but better I leave now than to waste both our times. I wish you well.’ Flora turned towards the door to beat a retreat.
‘How dare you foist your opinions on me and then turn your back. Do you not think I wish to be as other women are?’ Miss Pickford sat up.
Flora turned round and, seeing the helpless look on the woman’s face, she paused. ‘I will stay until the morning and we’ll discuss this further, if you feel it would be worthwhile. We have got off to a bad start.’
‘Do you really mean what you say? I can get well again?’
‘Of course, but it will take an effort on your part and mine… cooperation is the best tactic in facing a challenge.’
‘But I’m afraid it’s too late for me.’ Her voice took on a pitiful edge.
‘Ah, there’s the rub! Fear is a great challenger. When we want to try something new, facing fear is the first step and you have just named it. Well done.’
‘I don’t understand…’ Miss Pickford sank back into the pillow.
‘You will, if we both tackle it together, but it is up to you, Miss Pickford. God helps those who help themselves and others. But I see I have tired you out.’
‘Please stay,’ Miss Pickford said.
‘If you so wish.’
‘I’ve never met a nurse like you before. You don’t know your place.’
‘Perhaps that’s just as well, because my background is not dissimilar to your own. My name is Flora Garvie. You can call me Garvie if it suits. There is one thing I would like to suggest.’
‘Name it.’
‘Your four o’clock tea should be served, but with no cake,’ Flora ordered.
‘But I like my cake,’ Miss Pickford whined.
‘Better to have it once a week on Sunday as a special treat, understood? Bones are stronger if not weighed down with too much flesh.’
‘If you say so, Miss Garvie.’
This was a start, Flora thought, realising there was quite a journey ahead to release Miss Pickford from this bedroom prison. The woman was sick but not in a way she was ready to acknowledge.