The Joys of Convalescence

Winter 1915-1916

By Malcolm Savage Treacher, Sergt., H.A.C.

I was in bed when the summons came.
"What's up?" asked I, sleepily. "You're to get up, get your pack, and get off to Esher. They're waiting for you at the front gate."
Thereupon the orderly disappeared. Frankly, I didn't want to go. I was very comfortable with my chums of C.6. We were well treated; with plenty of good sound food; with plenty of amusement in the shape of concerts. I said 'Good-bye' to them all with a heavy heart. I knew when I was well off. At the front gate a rakish Rolls-Royce awaited me. It was in charge of a charming little lady, whom I knew later as the 'Matron.' She wrapped me in rugs, she seated me on a soft cushion, she saw me propped up luxuriously, spoke me fair, and off we went. Through narrow streets; on to broad highways; into wide expanses of heath and moorland; beneath sleepy oaks and sweet-smelling pines; along winding lanes; skirting banks of an historic river; through old-world villages; on to Esher itself.

What were my first impressions when we arrived? That our English women were wondrous. For nothing was too good, no trouble too much for my well-being. I recollect a dear bustling woman, whom we called 'Sister,' who assured me I should soon be on my feet again, who contrived to impart some of her own magic vitality to me in some way. Then there was a tall, beautiful woman, who had graced the last Drawing Room, to swathe me in blankets for the doctor's inspection. And a merry little creature with sparkling black eyes to bring me my dinner. I remember that dinner even now. It was the best meal I had seen for a year. There was meat pie of wondrous delicacy of crust; there were three vegetables on my plate; to be followed by sultana pudding and spiced sauce. And here vital questions delving into the essence of life are touched upon. for do not human joys find their apotheosis with one's legs under the dining table?

Epicticus commences his day at Esher somewhere around 6 o'clock, when a cup of tea is brought to his bedside. At 7 o'clock he bows his head gratefully to a knife and fork breakfast. 10 o'clock sees milk and bread and butter; at 12.30 o'clock is dinner; at 4 o'clock tea, with either cake or fruit. For supper at 7 o'clock the Olympian finds bread and cheese, milk pudding and cocoa awaiting him. But is this the sum total of one's fare? No, this is not; for at 8 o'clock there is another glass of hot milk to be attacked. Frankly and honestly, I had never before lived life in such joyous culinary phase. And both business and a wanton taste towards extravagance have led me to most of the world-famous caravanserai of the Continent. Take away the glitter and the pomp and circumstance of all these hotels, come down to rock-bottom solid comfort, to splendidly cooked food, and the little Red Cross hospital at Esher beats the rest of them to a frazzle.

But, in spite of this carnival of good fare, one thinks least of all on that in leaving the hospital. for are there not one's hosts to consider? Indeed, Esher without the many great-hearted ladies ministering to one's every comfort would be but a Paradise of tinsel, a Paradise of ephemeral and not eternal memory. What can I say of these women, of these splendid V.A.D.'s, of the kindly sisters, of the gracious, sympathetic Matron? Probably it were wiser to leave you who follow me thither to form your own verdict. And if your stay at Esher does not garner some of the happiest recollections of your whole life, you may 'slang' me with the richest barrack-room epithets in your vocabulary in perfect safety to yourself.