Wartime for the District Nurses Read online

  He was coming home on leave in about ten days’ time. She would see him again, hear his voice in person, not only in her imagination. Only now could she acknowledge how much she had missed him. The last time they had spoken had been that heartbreaking phone call he had managed to make after the news had come about Harry, to check if she had heard, and to see how Edith was. Even at such a time of sorrow, it had been a deep comfort to hear him.

  Now he would be home and they could see each other properly, resuming their friendship in person. Alice was aware her heart was beating a little faster. If she was honest, Joe always had that effect on her. She had started off by being angry with him when they first met, and it had taken a while for that to change to friendship, but he had always provoked some kind of strong reaction from the first day she’d seen him.

  It was nothing more than friendship, though. She could not take that extra step. Mark, the doctor she had fallen in love with back home in Liverpool, had well and truly broken her heart. She wasn’t going to risk that again. Neither was she prepared to entertain the idea of ever giving up nursing. Besides, who knew where Joe would end up on his next posting. She skimmed the letter and caught another reference to Eric Linklater, and reckoned he must still be at Scapa Flow, but there was no telling where his ship would go after that.

  She mustn’t get too excited, Alice told herself. Leave could be cancelled at short notice. Trains could run late or not at all. Even so, she could not resist imagining how he might look and what they would say to each other. Truth be told, she couldn’t wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Two down,’ Edith thought dully, shutting Mrs Massey’s front door. It was hard to believe. It was only last month that she had gone to the Duke’s Arms that sunny evening and they had met the airmen. Since then, Laurence had been killed in action. Now Alfie had been shot down, his tearful aunt had just told her. He was still alive, but injured and in hospital. Nobody in the family yet knew how badly he had been hurt.

  ‘They can’t say, he’s all bandaged up,’ she had sobbed. ‘He was such a lovely little boy, I do hope his precious face is all right, I couldn’t bear it if he was all ruined. My sister doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants to go to see him and yet she doesn’t know if the sight of him would be too much for her. She’s not well herself, you know, she’s got a dicky heart. I told her, don’t you go, you won’t be able to do nothing for him, and if he hears you crying it could make him worse. You send Ronald, I said.’

  Edith had agreed. Her brief impression of Ronald had been of someone sensible, as she might have expected of a friend of Billy’s. Not one of the wide boys who were known to work down at the docks. If his mother had a bad heart then she would be ill advised to make the journey to Portsmouth, where Mrs Massey said the hospital was.

  She hadn’t really taken much notice of Alfie that evening, beyond noting his uniform and that he seemed like a friendly enough chap, but Belinda had spent a long time chatting to him, Edith recalled. Mary had seemed quite taken with him too. With a heavy heart she began to pedal back to Victory Walk, knowing she had to be the bearer of bad tidings to her friends. As always, it would be better if they knew as soon as possible, before the rumour mill swung into action and blew the story out of all proportion.

  Bridget and Ellen looked at each other aghast as Edith broke the news to Mary and Belinda. They had just sat down for their evening meal.

  ‘So you knew this man?’ Ellen asked. ‘And he’s in the hospital now? The poor creature.’

  Belinda gave a small shrug. ‘We didn’t know him well, but his brother is a friend of someone we do know pretty well.’ For a moment she wondered how Billy was taking the news. ‘It’s just the way it goes. All we can do is hope for his recovery.’

  ‘And we’ll pray for him,’ said Bridget at once. ‘Isn’t it terrible? I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who was hurt in the war before.’

  Mary pulled a rueful face. ‘I wish we could say the same. We’ve all known someone who was killed.’ She said no more, not wanting to cause Edith any further pain. ‘But even though it’s terrible, we have to carry on. Sorry you had to hear this in your first week here. But how are you getting along? Do you know your way around a bit more yet?’

  Ellen laughed. ‘I don’t think I’d go so far as to say that. I’ve got lost a fair few times. Then when I ask the way, some people don’t seem to understand the way I talk.’

  ‘Or I don’t always understand what they’re saying if they speak quickly,’ added Bridget, who was the smaller of the two, with startling blue-green eyes and plenty of freckles peppered over her snub nose. ‘It takes some getting used to, your London accent.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Ellen agreed, while pouring herself a glass of water.

  ‘Alice has been grand though,’ Bridget said.

  ‘What’s that, what have I done?’ asked Alice, coming over with her tray, overhearing her name but nothing else.

  ‘I was just after saying you were grand, helping us find our feet,’ said Bridget, giving a wide smile.

  Alice picked up her fork and took a bite of the corn-beef fritters. ‘Oooh, not bad.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s another thing you’ll have to get used to, the ever more limited food now some things are rationed.’

  Ellen twirled a curl of her black hair. ‘We’d been warned. I’ll get Mammy to send us some of her cakes. Or even just the ingredients. We’ve been lucky, my parents live in the countryside and they can always get hold of eggs and fresh things and use them to bargain for whatever they need. Since we’ve got our very own kitchen here, we could do a spot of baking.’

  Mary instantly brightened up. ‘Now there’s an idea. How very civilised. We can make ourselves hot drinks, of course, or even a sandwich or two if we’re lucky, but anything more than that gets tricky. It’s not that the cook begrudges us the use of the big kitchen, it’s just that she has so much to do that she can’t really fit us in.’

  ‘And Gladys would probably be left to clear up,’ added Edith, who was always on the defensive when it came to the general help.

  Alice had an idea. ‘If she can send us the ingredients soon, we could do a “welcome home” cake for Joe.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought. That would be a big help to Flo,’ Edith said, eyes shining. ‘Do you think we have time?’

  ‘Sure, who’s this Joe?’ asked Ellen, sensing a change of tone. ‘Would there be any romance going on there?’

  Alice looked a little abashed. ‘No, he’s just a friend. A very good friend. Some of us know the whole family, and they’ve often fed us, so this would be the perfect chance to return the favour.’

  ‘Then I’ll send word right away,’ Ellen assured them. ‘Meanwhile, we will make proper acquaintance with our oven. It would be dreadful to ruin our very first attempt at baking.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ said Mary, visions of cake already before her. ‘There you go, Alice. Even more reason to look forward to Joe coming home.’

  Billy spent most of his afternoon shift working mechanically, there was so much else on his mind. Ronald had already gone home early, having won permission to take time off to travel to Portsmouth to visit his injured brother. He had no idea of what the travel conditions would be like, and so had decided to pack enough to last him for a few days, as well as all the presents his mother and aunt had gathered together, things they hoped would help Alfie get better and let him know his entire family was thinking of him.

  ‘I’m dreading it, Billy, I really am,’ he’d confessed. ‘I don’t like to tell me ma or auntie or they’ll think I’m a coward, but the idea of seeing me big brother just lying there all bandaged up – well, I can’t tell you what it does to me. He was always the one I looked up to, you know, when we was kids. He’s always been the brave one. But now, well …’ He stopped before he broke down.

  Billy had given him a pat on the back. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Ron. He’s been fighting for all of us, up there in the air
above Blighty. He’ll be glad to hear your voice, he will. Specially as your ma is in no fit state to go.’

  ‘I hope so, Billy, I hope so. I just don’t want to let them down.’

  ‘You won’t, Ron. And don’t even think about work. Me and Kenny will keep the show on the road, so you take as long as you like,’ he assured his friend, although part of him wondered how the two of them could possibly do the work of three. Billy was managing on little sleep as it was, thanks to his ARP duties, and Kenny had just begun fire-watching two nights a week. Yet they would find a way, somehow. While he didn’t know Alfie well, he had liked him on the few occasions they had met, and he was very fond of Ron, who had always been a steady and reliable colleague as well as good company after the day’s shift had finished.

  He was desperate to see Kathleen, even more so now that Stan had passed on the news about Elsie’s appearance, to reassure himself that she had not been harmed, but had resisted doing so until he had something to offer her. She didn’t need his sympathy – she was getting plenty from the Banhams, who had agreed to let her and Brian stay in Harry and Joe’s old room for the time being. She was relying on him for something more concrete. He had to come up with the goods. The thought of her being threatened was driving him crazy, and so heaven knew what it must be like for her.

  Billy had kept a close eye on Bertie from the day Ron had talked about his muttering about the grudge he clearly still held, and particularly since he had heard about the woman who was making a claim on Kathleen’s lifeline of a pension. Billy sighed. Bertie had had the temerity to come up to him directly, to taunt him. The odious man had hinted that things were going to change, that fate was for once going in his favour. Billy had challenged him to say what he meant, but Bertie had sneered and then laughed, before strolling off, whistling.

  Billy was left with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that somehow his crooked colleague and the awful woman were connected. Why would Bertie have started hinting of trouble now, when he’d been out of prison for so long? What was he playing at? He would have to follow the man home to see if anything happened this evening. While Billy was in dire need of extra sleep on his night off, keeping Kathleen safe was more important. It wasn’t much to go on but he had to start somewhere.

  Kenny called across to him to count a new load of crates, shaking him out of his reverie. He checked his watch. Another hour to go and he could put his plan into action.

  For once Bertie appeared to be in no hurry to leave work, but finally the man sauntered towards the main gates and Billy could drop his time-wasting and follow behind from a distance. He checked his ready change in his pocket in case Bertie hopped on a bus.

  Bertie headed east, away from the route he would usually have taken towards his mother Pearl’s house. Billy tried not to make assumptions. He might be going anywhere: to a pub, to meet friends, for a game of darts, or – more likely – to drum up more black-market business. Billy had no wish to get drawn in to any of that activity. He drew the line very firmly between what was legal and what was not, refusing to operate in the murky area in between, where so many of his colleagues lined their pockets with a little extra. Bertie didn’t look as if he was trying to avoid detection; his flashy clothes made him stand out. Billy knew he himself would fade into the background in his dull work clothes and dusty boots.

  Just as he was beginning to believe that he was wasting his time, Bertie came to a halt on a street corner near a small shop. He pulled out his tobacco and, as if he had all the time in the world, started to roll a cigarette, then lit it and took a relaxed drag. Was this the action of a man enjoying his leisure time, or was he hanging around until a particular person turned up?

  Billy tucked himself behind a garage wall that stuck out into the pavement slightly, providing a good cover position. He drew out a copy of the Daily Express from his inner pocket and pretended to read it, all the while keeping an eye on Bertie over the top of the page. Two could play at this game. Billy was sure that he looked for all the world like someone just catching up with the news after a hard day at work.

  He’d almost reached the sports pages when a new figure came into view, emerging from the shabby shop. Billy squinted to get a proper look.

  It was a woman, with bright blonde hair, tottering in high heels, and wearing very tight clothes with a skirt far shorter than anyone he knew would dream of going out in. She appeared to be friendly with Bertie, putting her hand on his arm, looking up at him coquettishly. She spoke too quietly for Billy to catch what she was saying.

  There was a lull in the background noise that was usually a constant around the dock roads, the buses and other vehicles, the bike brakes, the conversations and shouts of everyone going about their business. There was hardly anyone around and Billy could make out Bertie’s words loud and clear.

  ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell are you playing at, keeping me waiting like that? Have you got anything for me or what?’

  ‘Don’t be like that!’ the woman squealed, and then dropped her voice, her body language suggesting she was wheedling, but then the roar of dockside life resumed and Billy could pick up no more. He watched, glued to the spot, as Bertie shook off the woman’s arm, shouted something else and then whirled away, his whole posture indicating fury.

  The woman gave up attempting to look seductive and made a rude gesture at his retreating back, shouting something while doing so. She dashed into the shop and immediately reappeared, this time with a rusty-looking pram.

  Billy did a quick calculation. This must be the infamous Elsie, as she fitted the description so perfectly. Folding away his paper he began to walk towards her, keeping his eyes to the ground, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

  As he drew closer he could hear her talking. ‘Mummy’s not going to take that sort of treatment lying down, is she. Who does he think he is, filthy bleeder? Happy enough to take advantage when it suited him,’ she fumed, coming towards him at speed. She barely noticed as he edged out of her way. ‘He’s got another think coming, he has.’

  Billy stepped back into the centre of the pavement once more as she passed him by and turned to look, trying to catch a glimpse into the pram. He was in luck. He had an unimpeded view of the child inside.

  The boy was wearing a pale blue knitted top, rather grubby and far too heavy for the warm weather. His face was bright red, looking as if he was about to cry.

  His hair was bright red too. It was as red as Clarrie’s.

  He looked absolutely nothing like Ray Berry.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ronald could have taken a bus but he wanted to walk along the unfamiliar streets. He had to clear his head of what he’d just seen. There was a part of him that wanted to break down and howl like a small child, but he knew that would never do. And what did he have to complain about? He was still fit and able, with full use of all his limbs and faculties – not like the patients in his brother’s ward, or all the wards he’d passed on the way in and out of the hospital in Portsmouth.

  The only good thing was that their mother had not come with him. It would have been the end of her, witnessing the wreck that was once her eldest son. Ronald had been girding himself to expect the worst but, even so, he had recoiled as the kind young nurse led him towards Alfie’s bed. ‘Now he won’t be able to see you but make sure you speak nice and clearly,’ she said. ‘His hearing’s been affected by the impact of the crash but it’s coming back slowly. Take it easy and you’ll be fine.’

  Ronald wasn’t sure how what happened after that could ever be thought of as fine, but he’d done his best, after stifling a gasp at the prone figure, bandaged as far as he could see from head to foot. ‘Alf,’ he’d gulped, ‘Alf, it’s me, Ron. Can you hear me? I come down on the train. Ma and Auntie Ida send their love.’

  The body in the bandages had waved a hand and a low noise came from the small gap where the mouth must be. ‘Ron? That you? Thought I could hear me brother.’

  ‘You can, Alf. I’m here.’
Ronald had drawn up the functional wooden chair provided by each bed, and gingerly sat down, lowering his bag of goodies from home onto the floor. ‘I got something from Ma and Auntie Ida. I’ll tell the nurse it’s there, I’ll put it on your side table.’

  There was a pause then the body took a sharp breath. ‘Thanks. Good of them. Good of you.’ Another pause. ‘Tell me about what you been doing.’

  Ron understood that it cost Alfie to talk, and so he’d prattled on about life on the docks, down the pub, how Kenny had joined the local fire-watch team, the coincidence of Auntie Ida getting treated by one of the nurses who had gone to the Duke’s Arms with them.

  Alfie almost seemed to smile. ‘The pretty nurses? Which one?’

  Ronald tried to remember. ‘The little one with black hair. You know, I said her fella got killed at Dunkirk.’ Then he stopped, not sure if he should even mention that disaster when so many sick and injured servicemen lay all around him, in various levels of distress. ‘Auntie Ida likes her. What are the nurses like in here?’

  Alfie gasped for breath again. ‘Very kind. Haven’t seen them yet. Are they pretty?’

  Ronald shifted on his chair to look around. He hadn’t even noticed, he’d been so preoccupied, although usually he would have been as keen as the next man to spot any attractive women. ‘Yes,’ he said, even though he couldn’t see any of them at that particular moment, but sensing it was what his brother wanted to hear.

  Two beds along, a man was groaning softly, his eyes screwed shut. There was some kind of contraption under the blankets to raise them off his legs – or rather, as Ron looked more closely, his leg, as there seemed to be a space where the other one should have been. Next to him, a young man was propped up on pillows, his face grey, his breathing laboured and rasping. Still further along, in the corner bed, was another man no older than his early twenties, with half his head covered in luxuriant rich brown hair, the other half completely shaved, angry red welts along the cheek beneath. The arm on the injured side was raised in another complicated contraption.