The Mersey Daughter Page 11

  Now Kitty hurried along the corridor, careful not to be seen running, and rushed up the stairs to her sanctuary. She had a precious couple of hours free, and she was going to relish the chance to read her letter at leisure for once. Even more unusually, the dormitory was empty. She flung herself on her bunk and ripped open the envelope.

  Elliott’s slanted handwriting stared up at her, beautifully neat by most people’s standards, but she knew it well enough by now to realise that he’d written this in a hurry. Time was always tight for him. During the week of raids at the beginning of May he’d worked virtually non-stop, snatching brief bouts of sleep at the hospital, never making it back to his billet. She gave a whoop of joy as she read the first paragraph. His devotion in that week had been recognised and he was being given leave. Would she like it if he came to London?

  ‘Whatever’s got into you?’ asked Laura, sweeping through the door. ‘Oh, you lucky thing, you’ve got a letter. Good news, by the looks of it.’

  ‘I’ll say!’ exclaimed Kitty, quickly skimming the rest of the single page. ‘Elliott’s finally going to visit. I was so worried for him, in the thick of all the bombing, and he must have seen some dreadful things.’

  ‘All the more reason to show him a good time then.’ Laura threw herself on to the bed beside Kitty. ‘Budge up. That’s better. When’s he coming?’

  ‘Let me check.’ Kitty scanned the letter again. ‘I’ll have to work it out, it’s taken a while to get here … oh, that’s soon! This Friday!’ She paused, her old insecurities rising to the surface. ‘Laura, I’ve got to get my hair done and I’ve nothing to wear …’

  ‘Calm down,’ Laura said at once. ‘We’ve always sorted you out before, haven’t we? I shall go through my extensive wardrobe,’ she nodded towards the narrow cupboard containing her clothes, ‘and if there’s nothing suitable we’ll see what the shops can do. Don’t look like that, Kitty, you must have some wages saved up – you never spend anything on yourself. Don’t you fret, we’ll get you looking just the ticket for when the glamorous doctor comes to town.’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. He’s not exactly glamorous.’ She smiled warmly as she thought of his kind face. ‘But I do want to look right for him. He’s used to mixing with girls who really dress up. That’s not me and he knows it, but I don’t want to let him down.’

  ‘You won’t, I won’t let you,’ declared Laura decisively.

  Kitty took one look at her friend and knew she meant it. The weeks that had passed since their initial training had taught her, if there had ever been any doubt about it, that when Laura set her mind to something, she fully intended it to happen. It was sheer good luck that the two of them plus Marjorie were still in the same dormitory, in the same old school building. Many of the young women who’d arrived at the same time had been sent elsewhere to continue their training, once it had been decided what their specialism would be. Laura’s future had been decided almost at once, when the senior officers discovered that she could drive. They had been even happier to find she didn’t mind what sort or size of vehicle she was given. Therefore she was currently scaring unwitting bystanders in north London, who would glance up at the noise of a large lorry approaching, only to see a striking young blonde woman at the wheel. Laura had been particularly delighted when a very smart City gentleman had almost fallen backwards off the pavement at the sight. That had made her day.

  Marjorie had stood out for her academic abilities, and there had been some debate as how best to use them. It turned out she had a flair for languages, so she was currently on a crammer course in German and French in central London, commuting to and fro each day. Sometimes this was easy if the buses and Tubes were working; other days it involved a lot of walking. She didn’t mind. She was being given free rein to use her brain and she took to it like a duck to water. Unfortunately Laura and Kitty were no good to practise on.

  Kitty herself had caused them some problems to start with. She had no obvious qualifications, other than having run a home from the age of eleven. For a dreadful few days she had thought she was going to be stuck cooking again. It wasn’t that she didn’t like cooking – but she’d already proved she could do it, and wanted something new. Then it became clearer that she was extremely organised and logical. So now she was being trained as a telephone operator, as everyone knew how vital communications might become if the war lasted for a long time. She knew the job could change and develop as time went on, and might take her anywhere. She didn’t mind. She liked the sense of freedom that brought. At present she was based in a commandeered college on the northern edge of the city, easy to reach when the Northern Line was working, and tricky to reach by bus if it wasn’t.

  Now she stretched back on the unforgiving mattress and sighed with pleasure. ‘I can’t wait. It seems like years since I saw Elliott, although it’s only been a matter of weeks.’ She counted back. ‘Well, a couple of months or so. A bit more. Anyway, no time at all really, yet we’ve done so much. And he’s been through the horror of that awful week at home.’ Her expression grew serious as she remembered the sad details in Rita’s letters.

  ‘Well, my girl, it is therefore your patriotic duty to take his mind off all of that,’ said Laura grinning wickedly. ‘Look upon it as an order, for king, country and our hard-working medical staff.’

  ‘In that case I will,’ Kitty smiled back.

  Rita washed her hands, making sure she’d been thorough, before hurrying back to the nurses’ station. She knew better than to run; as a sister she’d had to tell off many a less experienced junior for doing such a thing. However, there was no time to waste, as usual. Her ward was crowded with casualties, mostly as a result of the raids in the first week of May. Once the immediate damage had been assessed and the injured allocated to beds around the city, they were once again full to capacity in Linacre Lane Hospital. Many of the badly hurt had been caught up in the massive explosion when the SS Malakand had gone up in flames in Huskisson Dock. It had happened after the all-clear had been sounded, so people had been walking home from the shelters in the false belief that the danger was over.

  She stopped by one of the beds. ‘How are you feeling today, Mr Pryce?’ She positioned herself where the elderly man could see her, as he was unable to turn his head. He’d taken a bad blow to the forehead and had been confused for days, believing she was his daughter and that he was back in Cardiff, where he’d grown up.

  ‘Sister.’ He gave a weak smile and his eyes crinkled at the sight of her.

  Rita bent forward and gave his chilly hand a squeeze. ‘That’s right, Mr Pryce. Any better today? Do you recognise where you are now?’

  The old man coughed but when he spoke he seemed perfectly lucid. ‘Hospital, Sister. Stands to reason. You there in your uniform. Where else would I be? Unless I’ve died and gone to Heaven and the angels are all done up like nurses.’ He laughed at his own weak joke and began to cough again.

  Rita was pleased to find him so improved. ‘You could do a lot worse,’ she said, mock sternly. ‘Here, let me give you some water.’

  Mr Pryce shuffled so that he could sit up and gratefully slurped from the glass Rita held for him. ‘Thank you.’ He blinked slowly. ‘Sister, has my daughter been in? I don’t rightly remember but I don’t think I’ve seen her. She’ll be worried about me, she will.’

  Rita tried not to grimace. As far as she knew, there had been no visitors for the confused old fellow. That could mean that he and his family didn’t get on but, judging from the way he spoke, she didn’t think that was the case here. Or, which wouldn’t be uncommon, his family had been caught up in the bombings, and were themselves too injured to come – or worse. She couldn’t let that suspicion show on her face, though. Bad enough to have to break the news if they had confirmation. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve only just started my shift. I could check with the nurses from this morning if you like.’

  The old man turned his rheumy eyes to hers, moving
slowly so as not to dislodge the bandage on his head. ‘If you could, Sister. I don’t want to be no trouble, but I’d be ever so grateful.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rita squeezed his wrinkled hand once more and stood up properly, setting down the glass of water where he could see it and reach it. As she made to go, there was a flurry of activity at the door of the ward. One of her more officious colleagues was trying to prevent a younger woman from coming through.

  ‘I must ask you to respect the regulations,’ the nurse was barking. ‘You may see for yourself, visiting hours are clearly displayed in the entrance. You must not disturb the patients outside those times.’

  Rita hurried across the well-mopped floor. ‘What’s the problem here, Nurse Maxted?’ She knew she must nip any trouble in the bud. The wounded and sick in this ward needed all the rest they could get, and any unexpected noise would upset them.

  The younger woman pulled her threadbare jacket more tightly around her body, as if she was cold, but she looked to be in no mood to cave in. ‘I believe my father might be here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve come all the way from Wavertree. One of the porters said as it might be him. I’ve been all over looking for him; haven’t seen him since the beginning of the month. We’re beside ourselves with worry. I’ve got to know if he’s here.’

  Nurse Maxted drew herself up to her full height, and she made an imposing figure. Not many people had the nerve to say no to her. Rita knew she had a quick decision to make. Either she let her colleague quote chapter and verse, which might result in a scene, or she could intervene and sort this out herself. While she didn’t really have the time, it might be the quickest thing to do in the long run.

  ‘I’ll see to this, Nurse,’ she said firmly. ‘You will be needed back on your ward.’

  Maxted looked as if she would argue, but even she didn’t dare contradict the word of her direct superior. She gave Rita a glance that spoke volumes but merely said, ‘Very well, Sister,’ and swept out, stately as a galleon.

  Rita faced the anxious young woman. She could see now that she likely hadn’t slept properly for days, although she’d made the effort to appear respectable, with her hair in a tight knot and matching belt and handbag, neither of which were new. Her eyes were full of exhaustion, and apprehension. ‘So, Miss …’

  ‘Goulden. Eileen Goulden. I’m looking for my father.’ She took out a handkerchief from her patch pocket and began to twist it. ‘I am sorry to land on you this way, but it’s like I said, we’ve been searching for him for days, and when my neighbour’s son said he thought he’d seen his name on a list up here … well, I came as soon as I could. I didn’t wait to read your visiting hours.’

  ‘I’m not sure we have a Mr Goulden,’ Rita said, trying to estimate the woman’s age. Older than herself, she guessed. So her father might be anything from fifty onwards, maybe—

  ‘Oh no, his name isn’t Goulden.’ The woman interrupted her train of thought. ‘Sorry, I should have said, that’s my married name. He’s called Pryce. Ernest Pryce.’ Her tired eyes were at once full of hope and brimming with tears. Rita could see she was not far from collapse. ‘Have you got him here? Or … don’t tell me, he’s not died here, has he? We just don’t know.’

  Rita reached across to the sturdy oak desk that stood at the centre of the ward, between the two rows of beds. Quickly she scanned the notes and checked old Mr Pryce’s name. There it was. Ernest. Next of kin – an address in Wavertree. Bingo.

  She took the woman by the arm. ‘My colleague was quite right, we are outside visiting hours,’ she said quietly, ‘but under the circumstances I believe we can exercise a little discretion. Promise me you won’t make much noise and that you’ll only be a minute.’ She drew her along to where the old man was lying back against his pillows once more, his eyes shut. Wordlessly the woman looked at him, then at her, and nodded.

  Rita tactfully withdrew, but not before she heard the woman gasp, ‘Dad. Oh, Dad.’

  Sometimes, she thought, she really loved her job.

  Frank carefully stacked the papers from that morning’s meeting as quietly as he could while the senior officers of Derby House continued their conversation as if he wasn’t there. The commander in chief, Sir Percy Noble himself, was joining in. Frank did his best to listen without appearing to do so. It wasn’t often that he was privy to the deepest concerns of these men.

  ‘It’s simply unrealistic to say that we haven’t been affected by the casualties of the first week of May,’ one began. ‘Obviously that information doesn’t go beyond these walls, but we have to admit that some of our vital personnel are no longer with us. We can keep them safe while they’re on duty, but if they’re above ground then they are as vulnerable as the rest of the population in their homes or out on the streets.’

  Frank paused briefly, thinking of the flirtatious young woman on the telephones who had been making eyes at him for a few weeks. She was one of the ones who had not made it through the May raids. She had been twenty-four. What a tragic waste.

  ‘But you can’t just employ any Tom, Dick or Harry,’ another protested. ‘These positions require a certain sort of brain. Most will have had specialist training for years, on top of an inherent aptitude. We won’t find those wandering around on the street.’

  ‘Then maybe we target those with aptitude and train them fast.’ Sir Percy took charge of the discussion, his face etched with lines reflecting his many years of experience at the highest level of command. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but we have plenty of people who’ve undergone years of training but who aren’t quite up to the mark. You can train someone all you like, but if they don’t have the razor-sharp mind to start with, then they’ll never make the grade. We must change our way of thinking to reflect the needs of the moment.’

  There was some muttering, and then the first man spoke again. ‘Reminds me of something Johnny Forrester was saying to me the other day. Remember him? Old chap but one of the best. He’s down south now, but was in hospital up here a few months ago, got taken sick when visiting family. Said he’d been incarcerated in this dull ward, and the one bit of entertainment he had was showing this young fellow how to do crosswords. Turned out the man had never even thought of trying them before, but within a few days he was solving them like a natural. Think he said the fellow had wanted to join the services but had a dicky heart. Couldn’t even carry on working on the docks. Strikes me that’s just the sort of young blood we need. Someone who’s keen, has the intelligence, but who’s been overlooked. Think of everyone who’s been turned away for flat feet. I don’t care what their feet are like if their brains are in full working order.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said the second man. ‘Firstly, I don’t imagine it would be in the public interest to intensively train up someone who’s about to pop their clogs. Secondly, how are we meant to find this young man you’re speaking of, even if we wanted to? Seems to me the hospitals round here will have had one hell of a lot of young male casualties through their doors recently.’

  Frank stood motionless. He told himself this was pure coincidence and that it could be anybody. All the same, it would fit with what he’d heard the last time he went back to Empire Street, which he’d felt obliged to do after the raids had died down, to assess the extent of the damage.

  ‘Very well, make contact with Forrester for a start,’ snapped Sir Percy. ‘Seems like a roundabout way of proceeding, though. I need quick results, not ages spent chasing after one young man. We’d better try every available avenue to get as many suitable minds as we can.’

  Frank gathered his courage and cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  They all turned round, with expressions that might as well have said ‘You’re still here, are you?’

  ‘Warrant Officer Feeny, sir. I think I might have a quicker way of reaching the young man in question.’

  ‘Really?’ barked the first officer. He didn’t need to add ‘seems highly unlikely’: his face did it for him.

&n
bsp; ‘Are we talking about the Royal Infirmary, sir?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’ The officer’s expression didn’t soften.

  ‘Then I suspect the man you want is called Daniel Callaghan,’ said Frank, aware that he was making an almighty leap in the dark, and yet utterly certain that he was correct. It matched exactly with what Danny had told him, and also with the completed crosswords in the newspapers that he’d seen scattered around the Callaghans’ kitchen. ‘And I know exactly where to find him.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Winnie, have you seen the corned beef?’ Rita was searching through the boxes in the storeroom, trying not to breathe in the dust. She knew she’d seen the box recently, but now it was nowhere to be found.

  Winnie stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. It was the middle of the morning and Rita wasn’t due at the hospital until the afternoon. Winnie, nevertheless, was unsteady on her feet and her hands shook a little. She seemed distracted.

  ‘I said, have you seen the corned beef?’ Rita repeated, her patience fraying. ‘It was definitely here before the weekend. I took out three tins – two for the shelves and one for Mrs Mawsdley. She wanted it for her Saturday tea.’

  Winnie’s eyes became focused and gleamed with spite. ‘Oh, her. No better than she should be, that one.’

  Rita raised her eyebrows at the insult to one of her mother’s friends, but said nothing. At least she seemed to have got Winnie’s attention now. ‘Yes, so that’s how I know there was a box of it here. So where can it have gone?’

  Winnie tutted. ‘You want to ask that Ruby. She’s probably gone off with it; she’s not right in the head. Or that Violet woman you think so much of. We don’t know anything about her really – she could be anybody, coming in here. Stealing our stuff.’