An Expectation

2

Marion rushed to the kitchens. It was half-past three already, she was supposed to have been in the kitchen fifteen minutes before, but Mr. Miller had arrived late. Surely it wouldn't be an issue?

Nurse Fielding was chopping onions alone in the kitchen. Her auburn curls were forever falling out of her cap and across her round face. She brushed them out of the way and looked up, smiling. "Hullo, Marion."

"Where's Cook? Who else was on kitchen duty this afternoon?"

"They went to the market, but told me to stay here. There's not much work to do, though. You chop the potatoes and I'll finish the onions. Then we'll just put hem in the pot and leave it."

"Alright, then." Marion walked over, grabbed a knife, and began to chop. "Don't you think we ought to peel these first?"

Nurse Fielding shook her head. "Cook said that's a waste. Oh, and the mail's here." She winked with a hazel eye. 

Marion rolled her eyes. "I'm assuming something is for me?"

"A letter from your James," came the reply, in a sing-song voice.

"He is not 'my' James, Martha-Grace," laughed Marion with a blush, scraping the potato pieces to one side and grabbing another potato. "We're just writing each other, that's all."

"Of course he's 'your' James," said Martha-Grace. "'Your' James is James Abbot, but you've got to remember that James is a very common name, and that Lillian Johnson is writing a James too, and so is Edith Richardson."

Marion nodded, still chopping potatoes. "That's fair."

"Good job on snaring the heir to the estate, by the way," joked Martha-Grace. "I gave it a shot before he left, but I guess he hasn't got a thing for redheads."

"You act as though we're getting married," protested Marion, who was still blushing deeply.

"Nobody carries on a courtship for this long unless they're planning on it."

Marion laughed. "It's hardly a courtship. We write one another, that's all- oh, you're serious," she said, noting the lack of giggling from her friend.

Martha-Grace shrugged. "Just a thought, love, just a thought."

They continued in silence a few minutes, until Marion could no longer bear it. "I think you'd like the new patient," she suggested lightly, trying to joke around. "He actually can see- out of one eye, anyways- and he's still got one hand. Stewart's new roommate, replacing Dawson."

Martha-Grace made a jokingly pensive face. "I'll pencil him in to my very busy schedule. What's he look like? Is he handsome?"

"He was, before the war," Marion replied more soberly than she'd intended, and continued with a much lighter tone. "I suppose he still could be. Half of his face has some nasty burn scars, but he has nice dark curly hair, and a strong jawline, plus his remaining eye is a bright blue, like I know you fancy."

"Hard to resist the jawline and blue eye, innit? Oh, well, we're not allowed to have unprofessional contact with the men, so I suppose I'll have to pass him up." A dramatic sigh finished the sentence, but neither girl could hold the serious air. They laughed and Martha-Grace pushed the diced onions into the boiling pot.  "Come on, let's read that letter of yours."

Marion scooped the potatoes into the pot and wiped her hands. "I'll read it, and then you can help me decipher bits and pieces. That's how it always works."

Martha-Grace handed her the letter. The clock read four, and a bell rang. "Oh, drat, that's Mr. Roberts again."

Marion put down the letter that she hadn't even opened yet. "I'll go."

"No, no," came the emphatic reply. "You read your letter from your James. I'll be back in a minute. He probably just wants another drink of water, that's all."

Before Marion could protest, Martha-Grace had run out the door. So she opened the letter with a secret smile, and began to read. The letter was dated three weeks previously.

Dear Marion,

I hope this finds you well and still at my mother's house. Have you given up nursing yet? Any more stories about patients gone mad over you?  Is Stewart still trying to steal you from me? Have you given in to him? Oh, I'm so incredibly bored and tired and sick. Nothing serious, I hope, just the damp getting into my bones. I sound like my grandfather.

There's nothing to do in this hospital camp except make up stories. I wrote one for you and I'll attach it to your next letter- it's not quite done. It's a nice cliche fairy tale, just as I know you'd like. I hope you still like those things. It's hard not talking to you every day.

Something interesting- I was stationed in a town called Beaumont-en-Verdunois. A few weeks ago it was heavily shelled, so there's really nothing left of it. I'm fine, though- a few bruises and scrapes, but don't worry. The interesting thing is that a fellow soldier of mine was injured very badly and they're saying he'll need to be sent back to England. He's badly burned, love, and missing an eye and an arm. I  told the officers that he should be sent to Abbot House to recover, mostly because I knew you are in charge of those who have either been blinded or lost arms, and he's a bit of both. My superiors said they'd rather keep Lewis here but I hope they'll send him to you. I wish they'd send me home to you. Maybe I should fake being even sicker, just so I could go home. The trenches are bad, we get shelled almost every night, and I've not even gotten upset the past few nights when men have died. What's happened to me, Marion?

I miss you and I think I love you,

James.

PS-Send me a photograph of home, will you? Maybe have you in it so I can remember just how pretty you are, and brag to the fellows a bit.

A drop appeared on the page, and Marion realised she was crying. She sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. 

"He's not dead, is he?"

Marion jumped. "I didn't hear you come back, Martha-Grace."

"Oh. Sorry." A pause as Martha-Grace came closer to Marion with great caution. "Oh, he's dead, isn't he?"

Marion shook her head. "You shouldn't joke about that." The words came out sharply.

"You're right. Is he.. alright, though? What's got you so upset?"

Another shake of her head, another wiping of her eyes. "Really, it's just that I miss him a bit and I wish we could talk more."

"Don't worry, love. It'll all turn out in the end, won't it?"

"Of course." Marion didn't feel as confident as she felt. "Of course."

*****

Upstairs, Lewis stared out the window at the afternoon clouds gathering. His hand gingerly picked at his face, without thinking, and he waited for the clock to turn to four-fifteen, so that he could walk around the gardens that hadn't gotten the chance to bloom yet.