Ambulance Girls Under Fire

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Bobby?’ I called.

  ‘Hello, I’m Bobby.’

  I ran the beam of my torch around what was left of the room. In a corner was a large cage, in which an almost entirely bald parrot cowered. Great tufts of grey feathers lay on the cage floor, and I assumed they had been plucked out in terror by the creature.

  ‘Bobby?’ I asked. I gave the creature a wry smile as I picked my way through the debris on the floor, heading for the cage.

  ‘Hello, I’m Bobby. What’s your name?’

  ‘How do you do, Bobby?’ I looked around warily. The walls were only just holding together. ‘My name is Celia Ashwin.’

  I hoisted the cage, which was not heavy but was bulky and difficult to manage, and began to retrace my steps.

  The shriek of a falling bomb split the air apart.

  We had been taught that a bomb travels at a speed of 150 miles an hour. Sound travels at 700 miles an hour. A bomb dropped from 20,000 feet will take about a minute and a half to land. The whistle we hear as it falls is made by the air resistance and begins about a minute after the bomb is released. So we have thirty seconds to find shelter before the bomb hits. Not enough time to get out of a tottering house carrying a parrot cage. I began to run, hampered as ever by my rubber boots and bulky waterproof. Bobby and I had just reached the staircase leading to the ground floor when the world pitched alarmingly.

  This is death, I thought, and I fell into a pit of roaring oblivion.

  I opened my eyes to darkness, unable to take a proper breath. Something hard jabbed into my back, heavy objects pinned down my legs, chest and shoulders and my head throbbed and ached. At first I thought I must be in bed, having a nightmare. So I tried to sit up and struggle out of the dream, to will myself to wake up, but I couldn’t move. Then I had the shocking realisation that the nightmare was real, that I had been bombed or the house had collapsed and I was entombed under the rubble. In that one startled moment everything in my mind was clear and still. The impossible really has happened. I am going to die.

  Every sense was heightened: the utter darkness, the taste of dust in my mouth, its scent filling my nostrils, the pain in my back and legs and shoulders and head, the heavy silence. I tried to scream, but instead I coughed and gasped for breath.

  ‘Oh God,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t let me die here alone.’

  David had died like this, alone in a bombed house, his body crushed. No, he had been already dead when the walls caved in on top of him. I tried to take a breath and again was choked by the dust. David. Perhaps this was my punishment for leaving him to die alone.

  A new prayer formed in my mind: If I’m going to die, then please let it be quick.

  I slipped into a jumble of fragmentary dreams. I was in the stable yard at Goddings, my childhood home. It was a place I had loved, only now the horses were crowded around me so tightly that I was being suffocated by their big heavy bodies. I was dancing with David in the flat in Caroline Place, whirling around with him to the scratchy music of the phonograph, laughing and wishing we could dance to a real band in a nightclub because he was handsome and a good dancer and I loved him. But our affair was secret, and we could never be seen together in public. I rested my head on his shoulder and thought, Just at this moment, I am happy.

  A voice, close at hand, screeched, ‘Hello, I’m Bobby. What’s your name?’

  I seemed to emerge from a great distance. There was a brief sense of dusty blackness all around me and then I was again in the Goddings stables, struggling to escape from the press of horses that were suffocating the breath out of me. I tried to push them away, to shout at them, ‘Get off me.’ This triggered another violent fit of coughing. Panicked, I fought for breath between the coughs, until I crashed again into the void.

  It was a spring morning and shafts of dappled light danced over the bright grass and lit the massed bluebells that marched up the bank into the forest. Sunshine sparkled on the water in front of me. The river flowed swiftly in the valley behind Goddings, the big old red house that seemed as old as time and was my home. Even at six, I knew it was the ‘big house’, the Manor, and when Father drove through the village the older men would touch their foreheads because he was so important. Father had dark-red hair. So did I, and my brother and my sister.

  I had overheard Mr Fettiplace, the postman, say that you always knew a Palmer-Thomas by their red hair and the Devil’s own temper. When I had told Nanny, she had said Saul Fettiplace should learn to mind his tongue.

  Goddings was not visible from the glade but I knew it was just over the hill. Inside the house were Nanny, who I loved, and the servants, who were my friends. Helen, my sister and my enemy, also lived there. And, when he was not at school, so did my brother Tom. Father and Mummy lived at Goddings, but I feared Father, who was often angry, and I was in awe of Mummy, who was dark-haired and beautiful and always smelled divine. Nanny could be hugged, but Father and Mummy were rarely touched.

  I examined the grey thing held firmly in my fist. It had been half buried in the damp earth beside the river. Something, a fox or a badger, had disturbed the soil and brought it to the surface. At first I had thought it was a buckle or a bit of scrap metal, but something drew me to look more closely. So I dipped it into the water and a small medallion was revealed, in the shape of an old-fashioned sailing ship with little people on the deck and on the high prow and bow. There was a ring at the top for attaching it to a chain.

  ‘What’s that?’ Helen had come up behind me. Her hair glowed red in the sunshine.

  ‘It’s mine,’ I said, in my piping six-year-old voice. My hand closed over it and I raised my chin defiantly.

  Helen and I existed in a constant state of war. As she was five years older, Helen usually won but I was not made for capitulation and would fight on until all hope was gone. This was usually when Helen went to Father for support. She was his favourite child. Tom and I knew this and accepted it. It formed a bond between us.

  I jumped out of reach as Helen moved to snatch the object, but the stony ground beneath my toes and the cold touch of the water on my bare feet meant I was trapped. The river ran too fast for me to escape that way.

  ‘It’s mine,’ I repeated, ‘I found it.’

  ‘It might be valuable.’ Helen’s voice was thick with self-satisfaction. ‘We should show it to Father.’ Quick as a striking snake, her hand darted out to grasp my arm. Helen’s eleven-year-old strength was unassailable. Once she had the object she held it up close to her eyes.

  ‘It’s mine,’ I wailed. ‘I found it.’

  Now Helen had it, the little grey medallion had become the most important thing in my life and I knew I would die if she did not give it back.

  ‘Why is Celia crying? What is it?’ Tom’s voice cut through my howls. He slithered down the bank, heedless of the bluebells and of the state of his clothes, and in a smooth, decisive movement he snatched the object from Helen. He stared at it. ‘It’s a pilgrim badge,’ he said.

  My tears vanished. Tom was ten and I adored him with a fierce, possessive love. Tom would give the medallion back to me.

  ‘I found it. There.’ I pointed to the place to provide proof of its finding and thus of ownership. ‘So it’s mine.’

  ‘Yes, it’s yours if you found it,’ he agreed, but he kept hold of the object and was examining it closely.

  ‘What’s a pilgrim badge?’ Helen’s voice was cold. She seemed not to care that Tom had the object, but I somehow knew how annoyed she was. ‘It’s an ugly old thing anyway.’

  ‘It’s hundreds and hundreds of years old,’ said Tom.

  ‘We must show it to Father if it’s old.’ There was a self-important note in Helen’s voice. ‘It might be valuable.’

  I became anxious, fearful again of losing it.

  Tom frowned at Helen. ‘Celia found the badge and now it’s hers. If I hear you’ve pinched it from her – or if you tell Father about it – then your coral beads will go missing. For ever.’

  My hopes
rose. Helen loved her coral beads much more than an ugly old pilgrim badge.

  ‘I’ll tell Father,’ said Helen, through gritted teeth.

  Tom shrugged. ‘I don’t care if you do. All I’ll risk is a whipping, and I’m used to those at school. But you’ll lose your beads.’ His look hardened. ‘For ever.’

  ‘It’s a piece of silly old junk anyway,’ said Helen. As she flounced away she shouted back over her shoulder, ‘I’ll hide the beads where you can’t find them.’

  Tom called a warning after her, ‘I’ll find them.’

  He peered down at the badge with a wistful look in his eyes. ‘It’s grand.’

  ‘You can have it,’ I said, because I loved my brother more than anything in the whole world, more even than my pony, Arrow, or my Labrador, Goldie.

  ‘No.’ He handed it to me. ‘Finders keepers. It’s yours, fair and square.’

  I took it and held it close to see all the details. Each of the little men on the boat had beards and wore long robes. ‘Are they the Wise Men?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re pilgrims,’ he said. ‘It’s a talisman. That means a good-luck charm. You keep it safe and it’ll keep you safe. See you safely home.’

  The scene shifted. I was crying in my bedroom. Helen had come in and was screaming, ‘Hello, I’m Bobby.’

  I didn’t want to speak to Helen. She had pinched my arm when we were having tea with our parents and when I screeched Father had called me a stupid little fool and ordered me out of his sight.

  ‘They hate you, you know.’ Helen looked smug. ‘Father thinks you’re stupid and Mummy thinks you’re ugly. They wanted another boy and they got a stupid ugly girl instead. Right now – right at this very moment – they are deciding whether to send you away and adopt a boy instead. I think they will.’

  ‘No,’ I screamed. ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘Bye bye, Celia,’ said Helen. ‘It’ll be so nice to have another brother.’

  A voice rang out: ‘Hello, I’m Bobby. What’s your name?’

  I emerged from darkness to find myself facing a red-carpeted staircase lined with stern-faced Yeomen of the Guard. I was in Buckingham Palace and it was the evening I was to be presented to the new King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. The royal couple were holding their first Court since the Coronation the month before, in May 1937. I was nervous, and struggled to keep my face fixed in the calm mask I had perfected over the years. Head high, walk tall. The bouquet of spring flowers in my right hand gave off a faint sweet scent as I fixed my eyes on the glittering headband of the debutante in front and ascended, step by terrifying step, hoping not to stumble. The gown I wore was beautiful, with broderie anglaise appliqued on a dark cream taffeta underskirt, but the bodice was tight as a corset and I found it difficult to breathe.

  The long lace train was looped over my arm and was another worry. It was the veil of Alençon lace that had been worn by our mother at her wedding and it attached to my gown at the shoulders. When I was in the Throne Room it would trail the required eighteen inches along the floor behind me. Helen had been presented five years before and it had been her train also; she had warned me how slippery it was. I found it almost impossible to keep it steady over my long white glove that clung like a vice on to my arm. The kid gloves were an integral part of the outfit, and were designed to fit so tightly that I had despaired of ever getting them on. But Norton, my mother’s maid, had the knack. With a fixed grimace, Norton had tugged the fine kid upwards until each glove finished halfway up my upper arms and then she deftly wielded a special buttonhook to close the line of tiny pearl buttons stretching up from each palm.

  The slow, stately ascension of young women continued. I was uncomfortably conscious of my ungainly headdress of three ostrich feathers attached to a lace veil. A similar headdress was being worn by each of the two hundred debutantes that evening, but many of the feathers were rented and smelled quite musty. Ahead of me a girl sneezed, which made me want to giggle. The feeling soon passed. My head ached from the pins that kept the horrid thing fastened high and tight, but I kept the slight smile playing on my lips. I shifted my thoughts to imagining the bluebell glade in the early spring. I could almost feel the cool breeze off the river.

  Months of preparation had culminated in this evening. It should have been a highlight of my life and yet I would rather have been anywhere else than in Buckingham Palace preparing to curtsey to the King and Queen. I hated that Father had been forced to spend a small fortune on my ‘coming out’. He had insisted on telling me the mounting costs every time we had met in the last few months. Society expected him to spend the time and money to launch his youngest child on the world, but he didn’t like it and he had made it perfectly clear that if I failed to perform exactly as required, he would find a way to punish me. Father’s fits of temper were terrifying, and I was desperately worried at his veiled hints about the decrepitude of my beloved but now very old Labrador, Goldie. I suspected Goldie’s life depended upon how I comported myself before the royal couple and the cream of London society that evening.

  At the top of the stairs a powdered footman showed me into the White Drawing Room where I joined the other debutantes who sat in rows of gold chairs as they waited to be called. They were seated in order of importance, and therefore in order of presentation. As a mere ‘honourable’ daughter of a baronet, I was near the middle, and would have to wait while the more highly ranked debutantes were presented. I sat and settled my gown around me to reduce the possibility of creases. A light dance melody was being played by the Guards Band inside the Throne Room and it floated around us like a dream, but the tension in the room was almost palpable.

  One by one, gorgeously gowned young women rose and walked self-consciously towards the doorway leading to the Throne Room. Again, I tried to escape in my imagination to the bluebell glade, but worry for Goldie and fear of my father’s wrath kept intruding. So I sat still and maintained the slight smile that so infuriated Father when he bullied me, and I mentally practised the deep Court curtsey I would very soon need to perform faultlessly.

  My moment came with a nod from one of the footmen. I stood, shook out my gown and walked to the doorway into the Throne Room, where my mother joined me. The Court usher scrutinised every detail of my appearance, and nodded. He lifted the train off my arm and arranged it carefully on the floor behind me. I handed over my pink Card of Command to the Lord Chamberlain, and my mother’s name and then my name were announced.

  ‘The Honourable Celia Palmer-Thomas.’

  Head high, walk tall. The white and gold Throne Room was lit by six enormous rose crystal chandeliers, almost blinding in their brilliance. On either side of me were men in evening dress or uniform and women in gowns of satin, chiffon, tulle, and lace that shimmered with opalescent sequins, crystal and pearls. It was like entering into a dazzling dream. As I began my stately procession towards the dais at the end of the room, I saw a familiar face in the crowd. Cedric Ashwin, handsome in his formal attire, was smiling at me. He was a friend of my sister’s and as usual I admired his social ease and effortless confidence. His smile was comforting, reassuring. I gave him a slight nod and continued my slow walk across the room.

  The royal couple were seated on gold chairs on the dais. The King wore a scarlet and gold uniform. The Queen’s gown was of deep golden brocade and her train of gold lamé and coloured sequins pooled on the floor by her feet. A tiara of diamonds and rubies was set on her dark hair and a necklace of diamonds and rubies hung around her neck.

  My social future, and probably my beloved dog’s life, depended on how I managed the next few minutes. I took a deep breath and forced myself into a trancelike calm. All that remained now was the curtsey, which I had practised innumerable times in the little dance studio next to Harrods, under the firm instruction of Miss Betty:

  Smile. Holding your bouquet low in front, sink down in front of the King. Put your weight on the right foot and your left foot behind. At the deepest point of the curtsey incline your head
. Smile again as you rise, keeping your weight on the right leg. Remember to give a little kick to get your dress out of the way of your foot. Take three sliding steps to the right, all the while looking at the King and Queen. Smile. Repeat the curtsey, this time to the Queen. Give another discreet kick to ensure your skirt is free, then move slowly to a door on the far side of the Throne Room, without ever turning your back to the royal couple.

  I smiled and the Queen smiled back, but as I began to sink into the curtsey, a raucous voice was loud in my ear: ‘Hello, I’m Bobby. What’s your name?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The world shifted. It was as if I was underwater, but when I tried to move, my body would not, could not obey me. I floated upwards from a great depth to realise I was not in the Throne Room. I was not in the stables or dancing with David or crying in my bedroom at Goddings. My father was dead. Tom and Nanny were dead also. And David. I lay buried in a bombed house and I was very cold.

  As consciousness returned I wondered why I had dreamed of my presentation. How silly it all seemed now, that night in 1937. Now my country was fighting for its life, London was under constant attack and the glamorous world of parties and privilege was an age away, like Ancient Egypt. My presentation at Court was as far from the dirt and blood and human misery I had encountered in the past months as anything could possibly be.

  I tried to move my legs. It was no good. I was trapped and most likely going to die. And if I died, who would mourn me? I had lost Nanny to a wasting disease when I was fifteen. She was the only real parent I had ever known, even if the world saw her as a mere servant. My brother Tom had died in June last year, drowned during the evacuation at Dunkirk. And David was gone also.

  ‘Oh, God.’ My voice was a sigh into the dusty darkness. ‘I loved them best.’

  My death would simplify matters. I wouldn’t need to divorce Cedric, for one thing, and there would be no scandal. Helen and my mother would be upset if I died, but not heartbroken. I am not loved, truly loved, by anyone. The shadows closed in, great cold depths of them swirled below me and I began to drift down, into the velvety blackness.