Fields of bluebells

By BARBARY ELVY STRATE

January 1943: The thick fog that had hung over us for days had cleared and the constant air raids had subsided giving the populace a break to breath easier.

In misty sunshine I walked with Sherman from our house down Clensham Lane to the bus stop. The area was still semi-country with orchards and fields. One field at the lower end of the lane, a rough, natural play area surrounded with blooming hawthorn bushes, was where the neighborhood children played rounders (a game much like baseball) and the boys dug tunnels and roads for their trucks. On Guy Fawkes Day in November, the residents of the lane turned out their house and garden junk and a large bonfire was lit to burn the trash and a straw-filled Guy Fawkes effigy. It was also one day of the year when fireworks were permitted; the celebration was discontinued in 1939 after declaration of WWII.

While we waited for the bus we chatted. "I will be transferred to another base, and will send my address," he said. I nodded and said, "I will find a doctor and hospital for our April addition and let you know." The red double-decker bus pulled to a stop. We said our goodbyes. Sherman seemed apprehensive about leaving. I felt very lonely the moment he boarded the bus. Future plans were made but the precarious days we faced did not guaranty fulfillment.

Diana, my sister, arrived at her friend Hilda's house while I went with Sherman. She and her new baby boy were resting on the couch. Keith, the first baby to join our family, had dark hair and brown eyes. Diana told me that she cabled Bert, her husband, who was somewhere in the Middle East. Two weeks had passed and she hadn't had a reply. The delay was cause for her to worry about his well-being. I tried to cheer her by saying, "You know communications are erratic right now. You will get a reply." Within a few days his joyous reply came.

So many aspects of our lives had changed during the four years of war and the Medical Profession was the hardest his as far as the selection of doctors, nurses and medical personal left on the home front. They were called or conscripted to duty in the many areas, throughout the world, where British troops were stationed and fighting. Retired doctors and medical interns were called upon to care for sick and needy on the hone front.

We didn't have a family doctor, and I had been away from home for four years and luckily hadn't had the need for medical attention. Maybe that wasn't so lucky as I had no idea where to turn for care of myself and baby.

My mother took over and talked with a cousin who was a member of the Surrey County Council. Auntie Beatie, went to work and came with the information for me to go o Dorking Country Hospital, a private facility, for a conference with the Matron. I wrote to Sherman to give him the date and the good news.

In late January we rode a bus to Dorking, our trusted means, as well as trains to travel anywhere in the British Isles. The ride took us through scenery of rolling green hills, where Spring lambs played. Some of the fields were a blanket of bluebells, and others, sunshine yellow with wild daffodils. I knew that if I'd get off the bus and walk through the fields, I'd find yellow primroses and violets tucked under the flowering Blackberry bushes or at the base of the flowering, wild Damson trees. But we had a destination an it wasn't to pick flowers. The white Cottage Hospital stood tall, on a steep incline. We climbed a series of stone steps edged with ivy and flowering shrubbery. The pathway took us through manicured gardens, awash with color. Primula's, Tulips of many hues, daffodils and Jonquils. An array of large pansies in full bloom fluttered their soft petals in a warm breeze. Around the building the sturdy English Wallflowers in shades of deep red, yellow and orange were alight against the background of the stark white wall.

We walked through a portico and a wide front door. The interior was silent. Through sparsely furnished it had and air calmness. Sherman and I looked at each other in wonderment. "Do you think we are in the right place?" he said. "We must be. The black and white sign at the gate indicated the Dorking Country Hospital."

A small woman with a spring I her step, bounced toward us. Her dress of black, calf length apron style covered a snow-white, long sleeve blouse. What appeared to be a large starched handkerchief, as white as her blouse, was secured around her head with a black band. With a smile on her rosy face and an outstretched hand she said, "You must be Mr. and Mrs. Strate." We confirmed that we were. She told us her name, which I immediately forgot.

We followed her down a wide hall to her office, where we sat facing her. She asked us a number of questions such as address, did I feel well and the date we expected the baby. She said, to me, "I will give you dates for monthly examination, until we think you are ready to deliver. I will tell you too, that you wont see the same doctor each time, as we no longer have a resident doctor.

This war has got us all topsy-turvy." She handed me a schedule of dates.

"Now about fees. You will have a 14-day internment after the baby's delivery and our cost is two pounds and ten shillings. Can you afford that? If not I'm sure we can come to a satisfactory amount."

Sherman and I agreed that we could pay the full amount. He handed her two one pound notes and one ten-shilling note.

We both breathed a sigh of relief that we had easily crossed this hurdle. Before leaving the beautiful gardens we walked along the footpaths that intertwined through the gardens, then walked to a bus stop, back through the tranquil rolling green hills where wild flowers grew and lamb's kicked up their heels, to Sutton.

Notes: Guy Fawkes Day; The gunpowder plot that went awry, intended to blow up the Houses of Parliament and King James 1st on November 5th, 1605, the day for the king to open Parliament. It was intended to be the beginning of the great uprising of English Catholics who were distressed by the increased severity of penal laws against the practice of their religion.

In 1943 the English pound, 20 shillings, in monetary value equaled $5 American.