There was a short but moving service after lunch which, as part of Reverend Davies’ policy of involving as many people as possible, included the reading by a lance corporal from the BOR ward of ‘A Christmas Prayer From the Trenches’. The first verse ensured instant attention:
Not for us may Christmas bring
Goodwill to all men and peace;
In our dark sky no angels sing,
Not yet for the great release
For men, when war shall cease
The little group of VAD nurses had put considerable effort into ensuring that everything would go smoothly and Madge was so pleased to see just how many patients sat on the veranda of the basha wards to listen to a carol concert in which the girls would, with the help of the Rev, get everyone singing. The nurses had been told by Matron, in the most diplomatic manner possible, to enjoy the day but not to let things overrun ‘because there is a war on and there are a lot of very poorly patients who need your help’. They were nervous enough anyway until they looked up towards the big house and smiled when they saw Big Arthur, officially on guard duty, pushing the sapper with the damaged thigh towards the gathering in a rickety old wheelbarrow.
‘He said he had never been in a governor’s residence before and wanted to see that big ’ouse for himself,’ explained Arthur as he picked the soldier out of the wheelbarrow like a baby and placed him gently into a chair on the veranda.
The schedule took another hit after a heavily bandaged Sikh told the Reverend how he had stood outside a church as a little boy and heard the congregation sing a hymn about ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ and did he know the words.
‘I think I may actually do so,’ nodded the smiling Padre and he was soon leading everybody in a rousing version of the English classic.
The girls were in their full VAD uniforms. One had a smear of blood on her apron. Another had done a remarkable job in camouflaging the after-effects of a soldier who had vomited his breakfast, but they still looked as striking as they had at the Governor’s Welcome Ball in Bombay back in August. To get everybody in the mood they started with ‘Jingle Bells’ and then followed that with ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and ‘Come All Ye Faithful’.
In between hymns Madge leaned towards Vera and whispered, ‘This all seems to be working quite well.’ As she turned to look at her friend she was surprised to see a little tear rolling down her cheek.
‘Yes it is,’ said Vera, smiling through her tears. ‘It makes me feel so very proud just to be part of all this.’
The temperature was still pushing towards 80 degrees Fahrenheit even though it was almost the end of December, but in spite of dripping with perspiration the nurses sang on and on and were boosted by the wonderful choral response of some very poorly patients. What they didn’t know was that the Reverend Davies, who had become accepted as a ‘holy man’ to Gurkhas of the Hindu and Buddhist faiths as well as Christians, had been secretly working hard behind the scenes to help make sure that everyone enjoyed the day. The result was that he delivered the most entertaining little surprise that in reality was a master stroke of religious diplomacy.
The nurses had been enjoying cold drinks during a short break when the Rev mischievously asked, ‘Does anybody know what all that noise is about up at the big house?’
‘I hope there’s not a problem on a day like this,’ Madge said to the Padre.
‘Not sure about that,’ he replied with a twinkle in his eye.
Suddenly a group of Gurkhas came marching down the hill in flamboyant style with the one-time Governor General’s residence providing a spectacular background and three ladies in traditional Nepalese dress adding colour and elegance. Whistles blew, drums were beaten and kukris flashed in the evening sun as the ferocious little charmers and their graceful companions whirled and twirled their way towards the wards. The smiling faces and enthusiastic applause from all wards underlined what a success the Gurkhas had been.
Reverend Davies had sworn Havildar Bahadur to secrecy before asking if his Gurkhas could ‘put on a bit of a show’ for the hospital patients. Agreement had been reached with the British troops who guarded the hospital complex that they would keep an eye on the nurses’ bashas while the Gurkhas ‘were otherwise engaged’.
The Rev had one more task to complete as the concert continued. ‘It is my great privilege,’ he said, addressing all the patients, nurses and Gurkhas, ‘to introduce Victoria, a lady who I am sure will conjure visions of a green and pleasant land that many of us here today call home.’
Victoria was the seventy-year-old widow of a one-time British colonial civil servant who was on an extended visit to old friends who once ran a tea plantation. In her younger days back in England she was a much admired soprano in Cheshire operatic society circles.
‘I am told she has the voice of an angel,’ smiled Reverend Davies, ‘so judge for yourself!’
The wind had eased to a whisper and only the gentle rustle of leaves accompanied Victoria’s hauntingly beautiful version of ‘Silent Night’ as she stood shoulder to shoulder with the nurses, whose timing when they joined in to sing ‘sleep in heavenly peace’ was so perfect it could have been rehearsed.
The grand old lady from the days of the Raj sang non-stop for almost forty minutes. Eventually she appeared to be
