The Victory Garden(88)
“What do you think I should do? Write to him and apologize?”
“That would be a start,” Emily agreed.
“But I wouldn’t know where to find him.”
“His regiment might help. And I know that he is living with a group of friends in London. A group of writers.”
“Writers!” The old woman gave a snort of disgust. “If his father could hear that, he’d turn in his grave.”
“Not everyone has to follow the same path in life,” Emily said. “Justin can’t be his father and grandfather. If he needs to write to express the horrors he has lived through, then why should you begrudge him that?”
“Why do you always have to be so insightful and so right?” the old woman snapped. Then she held out a bony hand to Emily. “You will stay, won’t you? And help me find him and bring him home?”
“I will stay for now,” Emily said, wincing as she thought of leaving Lady Charlton when Clarissa returned. “And I will help you find him.”
A letter was written to the army, but they had no forwarding address; in fact, they had him listed as killed in action. So Justin had been right. The administrators at the prison camp had never contacted his regiment. Emily felt such incredible sympathy for him. She had seen the unbearable hurt on his face when his grandmother had talked to him with such scorn. To have endured those conditions in which every day could have brought torture or death and then be rejected by his own family member was so harsh. Then she realized that they were two of a kind. She, too, had been rejected by her family. If she had any way of making this right for Justin, she would do it. But she had no way of tracking him down in London. She could hardly go to the city and wander around the neighbourhoods where writers might live. They could be anywhere.
Right after the letter had arrived from Justin’s regimental commander, she received a letter of her own from Clarissa. She opened it with excitement, only to read:
I’m back on British soil. I can’t tell you how good it is to get a proper cup of tea and scones and jam and a hot bath. Bliss. However, I’m not being released from duty just yet. I’ve been sent to a hospital in the East End to help with the influenza crisis. Apparently, the flu has crossed the Channel, and in the crowded conditions of the city, it is spreading rapidly. They do not have enough hospital beds and are sending nurses like me out into the homes to do what we can. Frankly, there isn’t much we can do. When the disease strikes, some people are dead in a couple of days. And it’s not always the frail and elderly. In France, I watched strapping young men just fade away as if the life had been sucked out of them.
I’m glad you’re safely tucked away in the country. Take care of yourself. I won’t risk coming to see you in case I bring the disease with me. In the meantime, I’m going to write to hospitals around the country to see who might offer me a position. Not in the East End, I think. I have had enough of squalor!
Emily put down the letter. In a way, she was glad that she didn’t yet have to break the news to Lady Charlton that she was leaving. Christmas was approaching, and there was food in the shops again. Mrs Trelawney went into Tavistock and returned with the news that she had reserved a turkey at the butcher’s. She had also bought fruit to make the Christmas pudding. Emily found herself thinking of Christmas at home. Before the war, there had been so much food, a tall Christmas tree with glass ornaments on it and presents. There had been Christmas parties with parlour games and much laughter. An image came into her head of her brother, Freddie, being very silly as he played charades. How he had loved life. So had Robbie. If he had returned from France, they would have been married by now and on their way to Australia.
Instead, here she was, thinking about what she could give her new friends as Christmas presents. She certainly had no spare money to buy anything. A shilling bottle of Woolworth’s Ashes of Roses would hardly be the sort of gift she could give Lady Charlton. She also wanted to give Alice something, and Daisy, which probably also meant giving something to Mrs Trelawney and Ethel. And Mr Patterson, too. He had been very kind to her, and she enjoyed their occasional visits and discussions about books. It was when she was with him that an idea came to her. He was telling her that he planned to build more hives, and maybe sell his honey at the village shop as he used to do before the war.
“If you do that, will you have more beeswax?” she asked. “Because any wax that you have to spare I can use to make my ointments and salves.”
“I have some now, if you’d like,” he said. “One of my colonies has abandoned me, I’m afraid, so I have the comb that they’ve left behind.”
Emily took it home excitedly and experimented with making a hand cream. She knew it would be better with fresh flowers, but the lavender and sage still retained their sweet smells. And she had a recipe that Susan had written.
Marigold hand cream.
Take one ounce of marigold petals and add one pint of good-quality oil. Place in a bain-marie. Simmer gently for two hours. Strain off the oil and pour into a saucepan. Add one ounce of beeswax and stir until well absorbed. Pour into clean jars.
It was not the season for marigolds, but she did have lavender, rosemary and sage. She experimented with almond oil from the chemist. When she had produced what she felt was a satisfying consistency, she scooped it into the smallest jars and cut ribbon from the good dress she had brought with her to tie around them. She was quite satisfied with the result.