Until We Meet Again Read online

  One day… Those words were on the lips of thousands of others as well as Tilly’s; thousands upon thousands of people who had had their lives turned around and who knew, whatever the outcome, that things would never be the same again. None more so than the many families, like the Ashtons, who had so eagerly made lives for themselves in a new country. Tilly learnt more about them from her friend, Sophie.

  She realised when she visited the family at their home on Manningham Lane that this was an upper middle-class family similar to her own, inasmuch as they made their living by giving a service to the community. They lived above the pork butcher’s and delicatessen shop in spacious premises, not unlike the ones that Patrick and Katy Moon now lived in above the undertakers’ office and showroom.

  It was an afternoon in August when Sophie took her new friend home to meet her family, both of them having been on the night shift at the hospital. The shop window was a delight to the eye, and to the nose as well if one liked the spicy aromas of cured ham, sausages and sauerkraut. There were numerous varieties of sausage – or wurst – hanging in links or displayed on trays. As well as the pink pork sausages most familiar to the English palate, there were Frankfurters; Weisswurst (veal sausages flecked with parsley); smaller Bratwurst, popular originally in the Nuremberg area; and the extra long strings of Bochwurst, which originated in Berlin. There was tender pink pork, cut into leg joints or chops; roast pork – or schweinbraten – covered with a succulent brown crackling; cured pork as well in several varieties of ham and bacon. Cheeses of several kinds; hors d’ouvres dishes – various sorts of sauerkraut, olives, herring in sour cream sauce, salads and noodles… And bread – brot – in all shapes and sizes; dark brown rye bread, pumpernickel, pretzels, sunflower seeds rolls, as well as the more traditional loaves.

  The meal that Mrs Ashton cooked for them before they returned to the hospital for their night shift consisted of – inevitably – roast pork, served in the English way with an accompaniment of roast potatoes, vegetables, sage and onion stuffing and apple sauce. With it they drank a Reisling wine, and then ended the meal with Kirschtorte, a mouth-watering cherry tart.

  ‘I haven’t had such a delicious meal for ages,’ said Tilly. ‘Well, not since I left home. The hospital food isn’t too bad, is it, Sophie, considering there’s a war on? But there’s nothing to beat home cooking. Thank you very much, Mrs Ashton. It’s lovely to meet you both. I’ve heard such a lot about you.’

  Mrs Ashton smiled graciously. ‘It’s good to meet you too, Tilly, and to know that Sophie has such a good friend.’

  Martha Ashton was an older edition of her daughter, though somewhat slimmer, with flaxen braided hair, a little less bright than Sophie’s, and blue eyes which, even when she smiled, looked a little sad. Her husband, Karl – or Charlie – was also fair-haired and blue-eyed and of the same stocky build as Sophie. He spoke in a guttural tone – both he and his wife spoke perfect English – but with just the slightest trace of a German accent; his mannerisms, too, betrayed his Teutonic origins. So it was with our own royal family, Tilly pondered. It had been said that Queen Victoria had spoken with a pronounced German accent – her husband, of course, had been German through and through – and even the present king, George the Fifth, two generations later, had not lost all the original native inflections in his speech. How very close we were to the Germans in all sorts of ways; what a tragedy it all was…

  ‘This war has caused us a great deal of personal sadness,’ said Sophie’s father to Tilly, as if aware of her private thoughts. ‘I expect our daughter has told you something about our family history.’

  Tilly nodded her agreement. ‘Yes, she told me about your son joining the army. My two brothers have joined up as well, and that has affected my mother deeply. But your case is rather different…’

  Mr Ashton sighed. ‘Yes, who would have thought it could come to this, lads fighting against their own race. It could become almost like a civil war in this area, and we all used to get along so well together. But feelings are running high in some quarters…’

  ‘We’ve tried to play down our German heritage, to a certain extent,’ said his wife, ‘but our regular customers rely on us to sell the types of food they’ve always been used to, don’t they, Karl?’ Tilly noticed that his wife called him Karl all the time, although he was supposed to be Charlie now.

  ‘That is very true,’ he replied. ‘A tradition that goes right back to when my grandparents opened the shop. I only vaguely remember them. I was just a little boy when they both passed away, then my father and mother took over the business. My grandparents spoke German, of course. They tried to learn the English language but they found it difficult. We learnt it at school, didn’t we, Martha, as did our parents, and one picks up the idioms as time goes on. We were all born here, in Bradford, Martha and I, and our parents.’

  ‘Yes, I was from a German family too,’ said Mrs Ashton. ‘The Meyer family. My parents are dead, but my brother has changed his name to Moore. They live not very far away. This is where most of the immigrants settled, in the Manningham area.’

  ‘But they soon integrated…’ Mr Ashton took up the story. ‘It is only recently that it has all started to turn sour. The anti-German feeling, I’m sorry to say, is getting stronger; one fears where it may lead. The sad thing is that those early immigrants did a great deal for the city. It was never a question of people from a poor background seeking a better way of life, as is often the case with immigrants. Oh no; some of them were from very influential backgrounds. Sir Jacob Behrens, for instance. Have you heard of him?’

  Tilly confessed that she was afraid she hadn’t.

  ‘He was from a rich merchant family. He was knighted by Queen Victoria for forging trade links between Britain and the Continent. And he was not the only one; half of the woollen mills are owned by what were German families. A lot of them are Jewish – we are not, of course; we would hardly be running a pork butcher’s if we were – and their wealth has helped a great deal in the building of the city. St George’s Hall, for instance, that was built on behalf of the music lovers in the community. And you will have heard of Delius?’

  ‘The composer? Yes, of course I’ve heard of him,’ said Tilly. ‘I was studying music until I decided to train for nursing. I have a record at home of some of his orchestral works.’

  ‘Well, Frederick Delius was born in Bradford; he is from an old German family,’ Karl Ashton told her. ‘Yes, Bradford has a goodly number of influential sons…’

  ‘And I think Tilly has had enough of a History lesson now, don’t you, Father?’ said Sophie with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Yes, I do go on rather, don’t I?’ said Mr Ashton. ‘Please forgive me, Tilly. I get carried away at times.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Tilly. ‘It is very interesting, Mr Ashton, to hear about your family history and about Bradford. You are right to be proud of your city. I have been most impressed by what I have seen of it since I came here.’

  ‘Yes, if you look beyond the industry – all the grime and the smoking chimneys, and the poorer areas of course – we have some magnificent buildings… But I’m sure you don’t want to hear any more about it now.’ He smiled. ‘I wonder, Tilly, if you would be so kind as to play for us?’ He gestured towards the upright piano in the corner of the sitting room. ‘We have heard from Sophie that you are a very talented musician, and our piano is played so very rarely nowadays. My wife plays a little, and Sophie and Stefan, they both had piano lessons when they were children, but I’m afraid they both gave up when the going became too hard. Although, to give them credit, their interests lay in other directions, of course.’

  ‘True, Father,’ laughed Sophie. ‘“Baa Baa Black Sheep” is about as far as I got! Yes, come along, Tilly. We would love to hear you. I’ve never heard you play what you might call proper music.’ Tilly had occasionally played the rather tinny piano in the nurses’ hostel on the rare occasions when the girls got together for a sing-song,
but they had never been in the mood for anything more serious.

  ‘I’m rather out of practice,’ said Tilly. ‘I don’t get the chance to practise now, but I’ll see what I can do.’ She sat down at the piano – a Steinway, a prestigious German make of piano – and ran her fingers lightly over the keys in a series of arpeggios. It was a little out of tune, which was what she had expected. She played from memory starting with the slow movement from Beethoven’s ‘Pathetique Sonata’, which had been one of her exam pieces; and then in a lighter vein she played a Shubert serenade and a waltz by Brahms.

  She had almost forgotten what a joy it was to play, to feel oneself transported for a while away from the cares of the day, to lose oneself in the beauty of the melodies. It was the same when listening to music. It had the power to uplift the spirit and to console the troubled mind. It was something that she now realised she had been missing a great deal in the busyness of her new life in the hospital.

  ‘Bravo!’ exclaimed Mr Ashton when she finished her recital. ‘You are a very accomplished pianist, indeed you are.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘What a pity your studies had to be interrupted. This wretched war!’

  ‘It will end, Karl,’ said his wife soothingly. ‘One of these days…it will come to an end. And then we will be able to pick up the threads of our lives again.’

  ‘I hope so, my dear. I do hope and pray that it will be so… Thank you, Tilly, my dear.’ Karl Ashton turned to smile at his daughter’s friend. ‘You have brought a little brightness back into our lives. Please come and see us again…will you?’

  Tilly assured her host and hostess that she would do so. It had been a pleasant respite from the activity – and oftentimes the distress and pain – of the hospital ward. Now they were both returning to the eeriness of night duty.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tilly and Sophie, following their first three months of training, were now on different wards. They missed one another’s company during the day, but were pleased when their night duties coincided and they could spend their free afternoons together before starting the night shift at eight o’clock. So it had been on the afternoon they visited Sophie’s home.

  Tilly had mixed feelings about night duty. One advantage was that it gave her a chance to study in peace. As well as their practical experience on the wards the trainee nurses would be required to pass a written examination on such subjects as the importance of hygiene and nutrition; the functions of the heart, liver and lungs and the various systems of the body – the circulatory, nervous, lymphatic and digestive systems; the important discoveries in medicine; the use of morphine and other pain relieving drugs; and, the most significant to their present situation, the treatment of injuries and wounds and the correct methods of bandaging.

  Sometimes, though, despite drinking numerous cups of black coffee, Tilly found it hard to concentrate on the words and diagrams on the page. There was a mysterious, ghostly atmosphere in a ward at night. The only light was from the lamp on the desk where she sat alone, apart from a glimmer of moonlight stealing through the chinks in the window blinds. Strange shadows seemed to hover over the beds and it was hard sometimes not to allow one’s imagination to take control of one’s senses. There were sounds, too, at night, that one might not hear in the noise and bustle of the day; the creaking of bed springs; a muffled cough or sigh; the noise of snoring, sometimes peaceful and rhythmic, or often the laboured breathing of the men who had suffered damage to the lungs. Sometimes there would be a cry for help or someone in need of comfort – for a sip of water, maybe, or a patient requiring a bedpan – calls that Tilly answered promptly.

  She had been told to call for assistance if she was in any doubt; if a patient should attempt to leave his bed or if there was an emergency with which she could not cope. Sister Berryman or another senior nurse would be on duty in the little room down the corridor. There might be a sudden death in a ward in the early hours of the morning when the human body is at its lowest ebb and its hold on life at the weakest, but so far this had not happened to Tilly.

  She was finding it harder than usual to focus on her studies that evening. She kept thinking about the hours she had just spent in the Ashtons’ home, not only of the friendship and the warm welcome she had been given, but of what she had learnt about the fraught situation developing in that district amongst folk who had once been friends. And it had been inevitable that they should discuss the war in general terms.

  Karl Ashton had talked about the strength of the German army, of how German lads, when they left school, were sent to an army camp for two years to become fully trained soldiers, ready for any eventuality. Some would have been eagerly awaiting a chance to prove their worth, and that opportunity had been realised in the August of 1914. That was the reason that many of the German lads then living in Bradford had answered the call from their native land. And what were Britain’s chances against such a highly equipped fighting force? The British army consisted largely of young men who had joined the cadets whilst at school, and volunteers who had had no training but who craved a bit of excitement. There was, of course, the main body of the British army, largely composed of men whose families had been sending their sons into the army for generations.

  ‘We were successful in the Boer War,’ Tilly had reminded her host.

  ‘Yes, that was true, eventually,’ he said. ‘You can understand, though, how Martha and I felt about Stefan going; he has had no training. Apart from the fact that it is all so futile…such an evil to peace-loving folk. All we can do is pray for a swift conclusion to it all. And we do pray every day that this will happen – don’t we, Martha, my dear? – not just at church on Sunday. As well as a personal prayer for our dear son, of course… And now we will remember to say a prayer for your brother, too, and your friend, Dominic.’

  Tilly closed her eyes there and then as she sat at her desk on the raised platform at the end of the ward, overlooking the double row of beds. ‘Please take care of Tommy and Dominic,’ she prayed silently, ‘and keep them safe…and Steve Ashton as well.’ She did not know him but a little prayer could not go amiss.

  She turned again to her books. Some of the diagrams were gruesome, appearing even more so in the lamplight – drawings of skeletons; pictures of the workings of the heart, the brain and the digestion systems in lurid colour – although some of the sights she had seen in the flesh were far worse. She felt her eyes closing and her head dropping forward as her tired mind closed down, probably for only a few seconds. This was liable to happen occasionally through the long lonely hours of the night, although one was supposed to stay alert at all times.

  She came to suddenly at a sound from one of the beds, something between a muffled cry and a snore. She thought it came from the right-hand side of the ward, three beds down, where the young private, Billy Giles, was sleeping. He was the youngest soldier on the ward at that time, suffering from congestion of the lungs as well as internal injuries and a head wound. He was cheerful and optimistic, though, during the day at least, although he was often known to call out in his sleep. He had quickly become a favourite on the ward, looking much younger than his years. Tilly found herself hoping that his injuries would force him to be invalided out of the army, so that he did not have to return to the Front. Surely he had done enough for his country, having joined up as soon as war was declared.

  As she watched his bed she saw – or, later, imagined she had seen – a shadowy figure hovering near the bed, and then fading away. She blinked, realising she was not yet fully awake. She decided it must be a trick of the light; the blind was moving a little in the draught from a badly fitting window. She watched and listened for a moment, but there was no further sound or movement from the bed.

  With a sigh she closed her text books; her mind would not take in the workings of the human body any longer. She reached into her bag for her copy of Under the Greenwood Tree, one of Thomas Hardy’s less serious novels, recommended by Dominic. She hoped its light-hearted story of the lives
and loves of folk in a country village would help to lift her spirits.

  At last the dawn light began to filter through the window blinds, and the men in the beds gradually started to stir at the sounds of early morning. The noise of clogs clattering on the pavements outside and the shouts of workers as they hurried to their early morning shift at the mills, a horse-drawn milk-cart passing in the street, and the rattle of a tramcar. Then the day nurses arrived on the ward to take over from the night staff. Tilly felt compelled to check on Billy Giles before she went off duty. She went over to his bed and placed a hand on the shape of his shoulder beneath the bedclothes. ‘Billy…’ she said quietly, not wanting to startle him. ‘It’s time to wake up. Are you ready for a cup of tea?’

  He did not stir. He was lying on his side, his face partially hidden, but she could see that his mouth had dropped open; what was more, his eyes were open too. She gave an involuntary gasp as she realised that Billy had died during the night. She felt her hands start to tremble. It was not, of course, the first death she had witnessed on the ward, but it was the first that had happened whilst she had been left in charge. She knew, though, that there was nothing she could have done. The sound she had heard in the night must have been his last gasp of breath. And the shadow she had seen hovering near his bed? She had no rational explanation for that and she felt it would be wiser to keep it to herself. She clenched her fists tightly, breathing deeply to try and get a grip on herself. Then, gently, she reached out and closed his eyelids.