A Christmas Truce
This story takes place on Christmas Eve, approximately six months after the end of Series Six and contains mild spoilers.
When consigned to Saint Benedict's at age six and three-quarters, I was the youngest new boy, and Captain David Hammersmith was the oldest staff member at school. He was the last remaining old boy from a group of damaged young men who returned to Saint Benedict's following World War I. With burn-scarred bodies, missing limbs, and fragile mental states, the more able taught or acted as house masters. Those like Captain Hammersmith worked amongst the library stacks or in the kitchens. The latter were rarely seen by students nor were those who returned in a similar condition from World War II. They were a sad reminder that British boys were not as invincible as the school would have us believe. During each of my six years at Saint Benedict's, Captain Hammersmith emerged from obscurity to recount the Christmas Truce of 1914. It was this story I remembered as I drove to Newquay with James Henry on Christmas Eve.
Many thought the story apocryphal or more likely a "latrine rumour," but Captain Hammersmith insisted he was at Rue du Bois during the historic event. In his account, the German troops mounted makeshift Christmas trees and glowing candles atop their mud-filled trenches. A German officer bravely called out in English for a truce, if only for a few hours. The astonished Englishmen – along with a smattering of Scots and French – accepted the truce, and both sides put down their guns. Soon German Christmas songs floated across the unusually quiet battlefield.
At this point, Captain Hammersmith would smile sardonically and say, "The remainder may or may not be true, gentlemen. Footballs may have been fashioned from munitions bags and used for impromptu games between the warring soldiers. Souvenirs may have been exchanged, and an English barber may have earned a few marks by providing haircuts to Germans. What was true were the corrupting bodies of lads who only years earlier had marveled at toy soldiers left by Father Christmas and Weihnachtsmann. They were retrieved from the stench of no-man's-land and honourably buried.
"As the clear Christmas day drew to a close, the enemies returned to their respective trenches to fight anew. Before the battle could resume, the German troops began singing Franz Gruber's, 'Stille Nacht,' and the Tommies responded with its English translation, 'Silent Night.'"
Captain Hammersmith said the exchange of stanzas – first sung in German, then English – continued for at least an hour. Then a calm descended over the land until dawn.
This was the cue for the school organist to play "Silent Night," and we laboured through the first stanza in German and then gratefully repeated it in English. Our reedy voices sounded through four more rounds – first German and then English. As we did so, the lights were slowly dimmed in the chapel until it was as dark and still as the perhaps mythical battlefield. After a moment of suspenseful silence, a Christmas tree was illuminated at the front of chapel and boys and masters cheered alike. Then the head master delivered his Christmas message, highlighting the humanity displayed on the Western Front.
"Gentlemen, at your darkest moments, I implore you remember that each of you is human and has the capacity for great kindness, understanding and strength of purpose. Take what Captain Hammersmith has told you as both a Christmas story and a life lesson. You may be faced with great challenges, but you will overcome them through your very humanity."
A heady lesson for a child as young as I was, but it resonated with me. The next morning I was leaving Saint Benedict's to spend half term with my parents in London. Little humanity had been shown to me in the past, but I was heartened to think that like the English and German troops, we might enjoy a short Christmas truce. It was not to be that year nor any of the subsequent years I reluctantly returned to London. Yet each December at Saint Benedict's I was buoyed by Captain Hammersmith's Christmas tale and tried to retain my humanity in the face of my vile parents.
When I moved on to secondary school at Tonbridge, the curriculum's emphasis on science convinced me that I could never coax even a bit of humanity from my parents. As I grew older and independent of them, I relegated Margaret and Christopher Ellingham to a category reserved for the inhumane and largely forgot about them. They would occasionally re-appear to taunt me with their narcissism and evil intent. Eventually I gained the strength to first banish father, then mother, from my life.
Now, Dr. Wynkoop and I were addressing what I mistakenly thought was a meaningless relationship with my parents. But it proved to be the source of my depression and likely the haemophobia. Although I argued vociferously against using a psychotropic drug, the psychiatrist ultimately convinced me that I needed a mild anti-depressant.
"Look, Ellingham, you don't have to like me, but you do have to respect my advice or you'll never repair your marriage much less your medical career. The NHS does not condone unauthorized surgeries on family members nor locking consultants in cupboards. You could have taken any number of measures rather than commandeer an operating theatre and endanger a patient's life. The fact that she was your wife made your action even more egregious.
"Chris Parsons has washed his hands of you, and your few apologists in Portwenn have censored your behavior. You have been kept on as the village GP only because no other doctor will take on that backwater.
"Your marriage is in a similar hash. No sooner was your wife released from hospital, than her mother decamped with her and your son. Despite your sense of well-being following Louisa's surgery, your depression was not miraculously cured. The full fury of the NHS fell on you as did that of your mother-in-law. This prompted your aunt's call begging me to treat you.
"Only Ruth Ellingham could have dragged me from London to see you on an emergency basis. You were in a near psychotic state when I arrived in Portwenn. You babbled incoherently about Louisa, a breakfast tray, your grandfather's clock, a dropped coffin,and a pig farmer named Porter. When Ruth asked about James Henry, you were shattered. You pulled a small toy from your pocket and cried that it was all that remained of your son. He was lost to you. It was a suitable end for a disgraced surgeon. You were again proven a worthless human being."
Months later I could not recall that initial encounter with Charles Wynkoop. I remember leaving hospital and driving to Aunt Ruth's where James and I had supper. After returning home and seeing my son off to bed, I phoned the head sister on Louisa's ward. She reported that Mrs. Ellingham was resting comfortably but asked not to be disturbed. She did agree to leave a message for her. I struggled with the wording and finally choked: "Please ask my wife to phone me in the morning."
"Yes, Dr. Ellingham," the woman replied, "we'll see to it." Based on my experience with ward sisters, I knew it would be done.
By ten the next morning, I had not heard from Louisa and rang the surgical ward again. The same sister answered my call. "Yes, Dr. Ellingham," she cheerfully responded, "we did give the message to your wife."
"Will she call me then," my pleading tone embarrassing me. "Perhaps, she'll ring you after she's cleaned up a bit. Her nurse said she's asked about having a shower. That's not possible so soon after surgery. Mrs. Ellingham's doctor should see her soon, and she'll have a wash after that. I'll remind her to phone you." With that I was dismissed.
Twice more I rang the ward and was given a brief description of Louisa's current condition. Each time I was assured that my wife had been asked to phone me. When surgery ended at six, I quickly fed James Henry and tucked him into his car seat. On the drive to Truro, I rang the hospital several times, and the various exasperated nurses told me that Mrs. Ellingham had indeed been asked to phone me.
Arriving at hospital, I had a bit of a tiff with the receptionist who advised me that James Henry could not enter the surgical ward. In my world receptionists are meant to be ignored, and I proceeded to Louisa's room with the receptionist shouting after me, "Security, I've called security."
Inside the room, Eleanor Glasson stood at Louisa's bedside murmuring to her sleeping daughter: "Don't worry my lovely, mummy's here now."
What followed was a very unpleasant recital by Eleanor of my wife's many grievances against me. No longer was I the charmingly grumpy man Louisa married. Now I was distant, nasty, mean, a bad father and a worse husband. I had no humanity. Louisa had to get away from me or lose her mind. Eleanor flew from Ibiza to rescue her daughter and grandson – from me.
So stunned was I by these accusations that I silently left the room, too shaken to respond. In the corridor, a security officer gently explained that young babies carried a great many germs, and it was not wise to bring them onto a surgical ward. Baby could also be infected by the bacteria, fungi and viruses harboured in hospital. It was best if I left and returned later without the child. Perhaps a relative or friend could care for him whilst daddy visited mummy. I nodded in agreement and returned to Portwenn with James.
In the morning, I phoned Louisa's ward and a different head sister advised me that Mrs. Ellingham was being released today. They were waiting only for her doctor. Of course, the sister would be happy to have Louisa ring me.
Morwenna handed me a full schedule of patients after I left James Henry with the baby minder. I could not focus on my work as I tried valiantly to sort out what to do about Louisa. I became dizzy during a hernia examination and realised I hadn't eaten since the previous day's lunch. Before the next patient came through, I hurried to the kitchen and drank milk. Again, I enumerated my physical symptoms in an effort to diagnose my medical condition: inability to concentrate, sudden anger, lack of appetite and resultant weight loss, insomnia, no interest in sex.
Had I not been so stubborn, I would have acknowledged the classic symptoms of my depression. Louisa had urged me to talk about my problems, but to do so made me physically uncomfortable. I did my best to avoid discussing anything with her, and this only frustrated Louisa. She felt useless, and I felt nagged. The more she tried to talk, the more I would withdraw. Another indication of my depression that I foolishly overlooked
I vowed to make an appointment with a consultant today. Feeling as optimistic as the day of Louisa's surgery, I told Morwenna to send patients through during lunch time. I wanted to finish my schedule early and bring Louisa home. Unlike her medicated ramblings before the operation, her head would now be clear. We could easily patch up our misunderstandings.
Morwenna entered my examination room at four, saying there were no more patients. Could she leave early? Having heard enough of her whinging from missing lunch, I waved her off.
"Oh, Louisa's mum is here. Said she's ever so much better after her operation. Let me know when we can have another go at surgery, Doc."
Before I could leave my chair, Eleanor entered the room and brusquely announced she was there to collect clothes for Louisa and James along with his bottles, a few toys and books. She knew her way around the surgery, and there was no need for my help. The two were waiting in the car, and she was taking them to Wadebridge where they would stay with an old friend. Her daughter was in no condition to return to school, and the term was nearly over. She would have six weeks to recover from her broken collarbone, recent surgery and – as Eleanor dramatically put it - "to reflect on her life."
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have booted her from my surgery. Instead, I meekly remained at my desk, allowing Eleanor free reign of our home. She bustled about and only said "I'll be off then," as she left with a mound of bags. Through the window, I saw Al Large furtively looking about as he helped Eleanor load the boot of her hired car. Louisa was in the rear seat with her head turned toward the harbour.
I stood transfixed at the window until the summer sky turned dark. At some point, I collapsed to the floor, and this is where Morwenna found me the next morning. The gritty carpet still sodden from my tears. Morwenna had the good sense to ring Aunt Ruth rather than the idiot Penhale. She and Ruth guided me to the Chesterfield where I remained in a comatose state until Charles Wynkoop arrived in the late afternoon.
He administered Amisulpride by injection, and I slipped into a dreamless sleep. On awakening the next day, Ruth was at my bedside and called for Dr. Wynkoop to join her. He thought that I had suffered a severe panic attack, not unlike those I had on seeing blood. However, this was triggered by my depression and what I thought was the loss of my wife and son.
Wynkoop examined me, asked a series of questions, and repeated his diagnosis of depression. He was not certain if a physical or emotional problem was at its source, but I could do one of two things: Accept a referral to a psychiatrist in Truro or travel to London in the next few days to be thoroughly examined at his clinic. When I argued that I had a mild reaction to blood that resulted in panic attacks, he laughed derisively.
"No, Dr. Ellingham, you are depressed. All of your physical symptoms are from a depression that has caught hold of your mind and affected your body. You must find the source of this problem and treat it. You have been delaying this reality for too many years, according to my esteemed colleague, Ruth Ellingham. Tell me what you wish to do. You need help immediately."
With Ruth's forceful prodding, I flew to London a day later and met again with Wynkoop. I then underwent a range of examinations to rule out a physical basis for my symptoms. When nothing was found, the psychiatrist prescribed sessions twice a week via Skype. I also had to see him each month in London. This is the course of treatment I have undergone for the last six months.
Medication has improved my serotonin and noradrenaline levels, and I soon resumed my GP duties. With therapy I have begun to make positive changes, but my relationship with Louisa is strained. She remained in Wadebridge throughout the summer term and rebuffed my overtures when I visited James Henry each day. Aunt Ruth saw Louisa weekly and convinced her to consult a psychologist in Plymouth. Louisa has kept her own counsel about therapy, but she recently suggested that we consider couple's counseling.
Despite his parents' muddled state, James Henry has prospered. He grows and changes daily and is now walking and jabbering. Louisa and my son returned to Portwenn in September when the school term began. We are fortunate that the Army gave Michael Pruddy a notice of discharge under redundancy and with no penalty. He is once again caring for James at Louisa's cottage. With its limited budget, the Army determined that it was not financially feasible to treat Michael's OCD. Like me, he was reluctant to seek help but has recently accepted a referral to an NHS psychologist. To my delight, he has not resumed his flirtation with Morwenna. She has other more appropriate suitors.
As James and I made our way to Newquay Airport, I reflected on the changes I am trying to make. My depression is well controlled with medication, and psychotherapy is helping me address the underlying issues that made me so miserable for so long. Patients will never describe me as smarmy, but they do appreciate my improved bedside manner. "Tosser" is no longer shouted at me as I walk about Portwenn. More often villagers exchange pleasantries with me, particularly if James Henry is in tow.
Since September, Louisa and I have had several meetings, and I hope we will soon resume our life together. Tonight she is returning from Palma, where her London friend – India Cloverley – married her old friend, Danny Steel. When India and Danny were in Portwenn a few months ago, Louisa invited me to dinner with them. It was an unexpectedly enjoyable evening because the two seemed so comfortable and content with each other. Louisa told me this was the type of relationship she wanted with me.
The holiday crush at the airport did not faze me as it once would. I waited patiently at the arrivals car park, all the time chatting with James so that he would remain awake. Finally, my beautiful, glorious Louisa rushed toward the car, pulling her case and lugging a bag of oranges.
"Couldn't leave Spain without a gift for you lot," she laughed as I exchanged James for her bags. He jabbered happily and squealed as she peppered him with kisses and questions about his two days with daddy. I hurried them into the car, eager to return to Portwenn and the peace of Christmas Eve.
Louisa chattered to James Henry until he slept, and then turned to me. "I wish you could have been there, Martin. The wedding was wonderful. India and Danny are finally together."
Ordinarily, I would have grunted, but tonight I asked about details that never would have interested me in the past. This was one of the many changes I saw in myself. More empathy and caring about others.
As we turned onto the dark road to Portwenn, Louisa exclaimed, "Oh look – it's the Christmas star." I stopped myself from correcting her and pointing out that it was actually Capella, the brightest star in the Auriga constellation. It had nothing to do with Christmas.
Perhaps appreciative of my silence, she began singing softly: "Stille nach, heilige nacht, Alles schlaft; einsam wachet. . . ."
Her words startled me after earlier recalling those long-ago Christmas services at Saint Benedict's. "Louisa, why are you singing in German?"
"Oh, a bit silly, really. My Grandfather James – you know, the milkman – taught me those words as a child. During the Second World War he served with the 1st Battalion of the North Staffordshire Regiment, the one involved in the Christmas Truce of 1914. At Christmas the regiment had a tradition of singing "Silent Night" first in English, then in German. He always sang the two versions with me at Christmas until he died when I was age 11. Soon afterward, my mum left us and moved to Spain. Not a very good year, altogether."
"Louisa, I know there were many bad things in your life," I tentatively began. "Mine too. Both of us have tried very hard to overcome our problems so that we can be together again. I want you and James Henry back with me. You are my wife, and I can't bear being without you."
She took my hand and brought it to her lips, but said nothing. Instead she began singing "Silent Night." After the first stanza, I responded in German. We alternated singing in the two languages as we made our way home to Portwenn following the Christmas Star.
Sometimes a Christmas Truce provides only a brief respite from the horrors of battle.
Sometimes a Christmas Truce fails to be recognised by unloving parents.
Sometimes a Christmas Truce signals the renewal of a marriage.
Saint Benedict's head master rightly told us that we could overcome great challenges if we retained our humanity. It has been a struggle to retain my humanity In the face of all that has befallen me. I now have the confidence to know that Louisa and I will be together again - and into the future.
The End