On a Turning Tide

by Ellie Dean

  So here she was, in the middle of nowhere, the rain hammering on the roof and the windows misting up despite the fact she’d cracked open the window.

  She slowed down to take a series of particularly sharp bends, lit yet another cigarette and peered into the murky darkness until she reached a straight stretch and put her foot down on the accelerator. Hugh had let her borrow the car from the London office pool, but it didn’t have much go in it, which was very frustrating, and now the rain was coming in through the window. She threw the cigarette out, shut the window and smeared away the instant veil of mist which spread across the windscreen.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ she swore softly. ‘I should have come down whilst it was still light.’ Gripping the steering wheel, she sat forward and slowed the car again as she reached a huge puddle that spread the width of the road. Knowing the dangers of flooding the engine by driving through the middle of it, she crawled along at the very edge, praying there wasn’t a deep pothole lurking there that might damage the underneath of the car or twist the wheels out of alignment. She certainly didn’t fancy breaking down out here at this time of night.

  ‘This is as bad as blasted Devon,’ she muttered, remembering the narrow, twisting lanes that she’d navigated on her last visit to her younger daughter, Carol.

  At the time, Carol had only just returned to her little cottage in the village of Slapton, after a spell of living at the farm where she worked as a land girl when she’d been evacuated during the American rehearsals for D-Day.

  Darling Carol had forgiven her for being a lousy mother as well as the far more heinous sin of keeping her father’s identity secret. Felix Addington turning up in Slapton had been a terrible shock, and Dolly was eternally grateful that both he and Carol had been so understanding about it all – and that she’d found love again with the man she’d thought she’d lost all those years before.

  Carol’s understanding and love was a far cry from the way her elder daughter, Pauline, had reacted. She was sour-faced and needy at the best of times and saw everything Dolly did as a personal slight, and had cut her mother out of her life. Dolly was not the sort of woman to put up with that kind of nonsense, and she had come down here to have it out with Pauline and try to mend fences – between them and between Pauline and her beleaguered husband, Frank Reilly.

  ‘Poor old Frank got the worst of it all, as usual,’ Dolly murmured, opening the window again to clear the fog on the windscreen. ‘I do hope Pauline actually listened to what I had to say and did something to repair that train-wreck of a marriage – if only for his sake.’

  The tiny dashboard clock showed it was now after three in the morning, and as she breached the hill and headed down the High Street and into Camden Road, it soon became evident that poor old Cliffehaven had come off quite badly from the recent V-2 attacks that Peggy had written to her about. The block of flats next to the hospital was gone, and there were gaps all down the street past the Anchor. At least that’s still standing, she thought, looking up at the darkened windows. I hope Rosie is managing to get some sleep tonight – though I very much doubt it.

  Dolly drove the car into the hospital forecourt and round to the car park at the side. She switched off the engine, killed the lights and sat for a moment, deep in thought.

  Bertram had telephoned again this afternoon, reporting on Ron’s condition. He clearly hadn’t known much, but it was enough to make her extremely worried. Now she was here, she was not at all sure she wanted to see what had happened to Ron, for he was very dear to her, and the thought of losing him was simply too dreadful to bear.

  However, she might not get the chance to see him alive again, and she’d never be able to live with herself if she turned round and went back to London without doing so. Cross with herself for even considering such a thing, she grabbed her handbag and ran through the rain to the hospital entrance.

  Shaking the rain from her fur, she patted her expensively coloured and set hair, and headed for the information desk, where an elderly man sat behind a sliding window sipping from a mug of tea. ‘I am Mrs Cartwright, and I have an appointment with Matron,’ she said once he’d slid back the glass.

  She could see by his expression that he was about to give her an argument, and held up a letter addressed to Matron and clearly marked with the portcullis of government and the letters MOD stamped in red at one corner. ‘She is expecting me,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Look, lady, you ain’t coming in here to see anyone at this hour. You can wave that envelope about as much as yer like. It don’t mean nothing to me.’

  ‘That will do, Simms.’ Matron appeared, duly starched and rustling even at this ghastly hour of the morning. Tall and slender and rather elegant, she had an attractive face, rather marred by untamed eyebrows and a sour expression.

  ‘Mrs Cartwright?’ she asked, looking Dolly up and down as if she was a rare and exotic specimen in a laboratory.

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you at this ridiculous hour,’ said Dolly. ‘But I couldn’t get away from London any sooner.’

  ‘I really don’t understand why you couldn’t have waited until the usual visiting times,’ grumbled Matron, leading her towards her office. ‘My hours are very long as it is, and I don’t appreciate all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.’

  Dolly closed the door behind her. ‘There’s a war on, Matron,’ she replied blithely. ‘Sometimes these things are necessary if we are to safeguard our national security.’

  ‘I fail to see how Mr Reilly could affect such a thing,’ said Matron with a sniff.

  Dolly made no reply and remained standing.

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose I’ll just have to put up with it,’ sighed Matron. ‘But it’s all most inconvenient.’ She folded her hands neatly over her silver belt buckle. ‘Your colleague mentioned a letter of introduction from Whitehall.’

  Dolly handed over the letter which had been signed by her boss, Sir Hugh Cuthbertson, in his guise as Minister for Internal Security at the Home Office.

  ‘What is it you want, exactly, Mrs Cartwright?’ asked Matron when she’d read the letter and noted the signature with a raised brow.

  ‘I wish to see Mr Reilly and to speak to his surgeon,’ she replied.

  ‘Mr Armstrong is not to be disturbed,’ Matron bristled. ‘The surgery on Mr Reilly took several hours and he has a full theatre list starting at seven this morning.’

  ‘Then he won’t mind being woken a couple of hours early,’ said Dolly.

  Matron’s bushy brows rose in horror. ‘That is out of the question,’ she snapped.

  ‘When you spoke to Sir Hugh on the telephone, didn’t you understand the gravity of the situation, Matron?’

  ‘I understood that I was being ordered about by some titled toff in London,’ she retorted stiffly. ‘This is my hospital, Mrs Cartwright, and no one tells me what to do.’

  ‘I’m afraid we all have to obey orders, Matron – whether we like it or not. I’ve just spent four hours driving down from London in the most appalling weather, and will have to drive back again before the night is over. I’m here to see Mr Reilly and the surgeon, and will remain until I do so.’

  The two women looked evenly at one another, both aware they’d reached an impasse. It was Matron who blinked first. ‘I’ll take you to Mr Reilly,’ she said with great reluctance, ‘but it may be some time before I can reach Mr Armstrong. He lives outside Cliffehaven.’

  ‘I’m prepared to wait,’ said Dolly, opening the door to encourage the woman to lead her to Ron.

  Matron’s starched apron crackled as if giving voice to the wearer’s brittle mood, and she hurried along a maze of brightly lit corridors until she reached the last door.

  ‘He’s in the side room to guard him from infection,’ she said. ‘A nurse is to stay with him at all times to monitor his vital signs. Please do not do anything to disturb or upset him.’

  Dolly’s heart missed a beat at the woman’s stern expression, but she managed to nod before stepping inside. The
light was very dim and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the bright corridors, but the sight of Ron was all too clear, and she had to stifle a gasp of horror as she acknowledged the nurse and stepped over to the bed.

  She was barely aware of a muffled conversation going on between Matron and the nurse before the woman left, for her whole focus was on the pitiful sight of the man in the bed. ‘Oh, Ron,’ she breathed. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself this time?’

  His eyes moved beneath the lids and flickered open. ‘Dolly? What you doing down here?’

  ‘I came to see how you are, you old rogue,’ she whispered fondly.

  He moved his head against the pile of pillows. ‘Got to get out, Dolly. Caving in. Gases coming.’

  The nurse rushed over but Dolly waved her away, for she’d realised he thought he was still in the tunnel – or even perhaps in one of those he’d dug to lay explosives in the first shout. She gently stroked back the hair drooping over his forehead. ‘You’re in hospital, Ron,’ she soothed. ‘The tunnel was yesterday and we’re both quite, quite safe.’

  He became still and tried to focus on her. ‘Can’t move,’ he rasped. ‘Buried.’

  ‘You’ve hurt your back,’ she explained softly. ‘And they’ve tucked in the sheet very tightly, which is why you can’t move.’ She continued to stroke back his hair and hold his hand as he struggled to absorb what she was saying.

  ‘Don’t tire yourself, Ron,’ she murmured. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll be here for a while yet.’

  ‘Ach, Dolly. To be sure, ’tis good to see you,’ he sighed.

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ she replied, her heart breaking at the sight of him, ‘but it might be better if you said nothing about my visit to Peggy and the others.’ She leaned to whisper in his ear so the nurse couldn’t hear her. ‘I’m Mrs Cartwright for now and Dolly’s not supposed to be in Cliffehaven.’

  He gripped her fingers with surprising strength. ‘Still up to your old tricks, eh?’ He gave a sigh and fell back into a morphine-induced sleep.

  Dolly sat with him for an hour, but he didn’t wake again. She made no attempt to question the nurse, but watched closely as the girl monitored his temperature and pulse rate, and kept checking the drips.

  At a quarter to five, a tall, handsome man appeared in the doorway, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit, but clearly in a filthy temper. He jerked his head at Dolly, indicating she should follow him, turned on his heel and walked back into the corridor.

  Dolly took an instant dislike to him. ‘I’m assuming that was Mr Armstrong?’ she said to the nurse. At her nervous nod, she turned back to a comatose Ron. ‘God has summonsed me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll pop in again before I leave.’

  She took her time to gather up her fur coat, gloves and handbag, smiled at the nurse and slowly walked out of the room.

  Armstrong was nowhere to be seen.

  The blasted man’s playing games, she thought crossly. And I’m in absolutely no mood to pander to what appears to be a vast ego.

  She began to walk back down the corridor, her high heels tapping on the polished floor, until she reached an open door and saw him sitting behind an enormous and expensive-looking desk – another sign of his perceived self-importance, she thought sourly.

  She strolled in, noting that he hadn’t stood to greet her – another black mark against him – and eschewing the two chairs standing in front of that ridiculous desk, made herself comfortable on the couch. It stood beneath the window off to one side of the desk, and therefore forced the man to turn round to face her.

  ‘I do not appreciate being summonsed at this time of the morning,’ he snapped.

  ‘You have rather made that clear,’ said Dolly, lighting a cigarette. ‘I have to say that your manners are far from what I’d have expected from a man of your education and eminence.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘But then none of us are at our best at this time of the morning, are we?’

  He gave an irritated sigh, fetched an ashtray and placed it on the arm of the couch. ‘Indeed we are not,’ he said by way of apology as he looked down at her from his great height. ‘What is it you want from me, Mrs Cartwright?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me about Mr Reilly’s operation, and your prognosis for the future. And please don’t patronise me by glossing over things. I might be a woman, but I’m an intelligent, level-headed one and have probably experienced more blood and gore than you ever will.’

  His eyebrows rose at this and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Somehow,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t find that remotely surprising.’ He reached for the telephone. ‘May I offer you some coffee?’

  ‘That would be utter bliss,’ sighed Dolly, relieved the games were over and they’d called a truce.

  Armstrong had just finished going through every detail of Ron’s operation when a nurse arrived with a tray set with a bone china coffee pot, sugar bowl and milk jug, and delicate cups and tiny silver spoons which rattled on their saucers as she nervously placed the tray on the desk.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ murmured Dolly when it became clear Armstrong wasn’t going to say anything. Really, she thought in exasperation. The man’s a Neanderthal.

  The nurse scuttled out like a frightened rabbit and softly closed the door. Armstrong poured the coffee, and Dolly refused the milk and sugar. She liked her coffee strong, fragrant and satisfying – just like her men.

  ‘So,’ she said after taking a reviving sip. ‘What is your prognosis, Mr Armstrong?’

  ‘He has a long road of recuperation ahead of him as long as he can empty his bladder on his own,’ he replied. ‘Unfortunately, there seems to be no progress in that direction, and if it continues, then I’m very much afraid he will not survive.’

  She almost spilled her coffee and had to put the delicate cup and saucer down on the arm of the couch. Clasping her trembling hands tightly in her lap, she ignored the wild beating of her heart and regarded him evenly. ‘Surely there must be something you can do to force the bladder to work?’

  ‘Sadly, medical science has not advanced to that degree,’ he replied. ‘The only two options I have are manual expression, for which my senior nursing staff and I have been trained, and the catheter. I’m loath to use it too often as it can infect the kidneys, so do so only when the bladder is full.’

  ‘I see,’ she murmured, fighting hard to hold back the tears which she was damned she’d let fall in front of this pompous oaf.

  ‘If the bladder cannot be emptied of its own accord then infection will quickly follow and result in kidney failure,’ he carried on, seemingly oblivious to her distress. ‘Spinal surgery is one of the most complex procedures, but the research into its aftermath is sadly lagging.’

  ‘How long does he have?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘A matter of days if his kidneys don’t function,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cartwright, but you did ask me to be honest with you.’

  ‘Do Mrs Braithwaite and the rest of his family know?’

  ‘I don’t think they fully understood the severity of his situation when I spoke to them yesterday, so I shall be speaking to them again today to prepare them. I have suggested that if Mrs Braithwaite wishes to have a wedding ceremony here in the hospital, it can be arranged at very short notice. But she was too distressed to discuss it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Dolly, the image of a distraught Rosie flashing in her mind’s eye. She got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong, for all you’ve done for Ronan. I’ll pop in to see him again, just for a minute, and then I must go back to London.’

  Without waiting for his reply, she hurried out of the room and down the corridor to the Ladies’ she’d spotted earlier.

  Dolly rarely cried – in fact, she prided herself on managing to keep her emotions tightly under control in any given situation – but as she shut the cubicle door and sank onto the lavatory lid, she buried her face in her hands and shed hot, desperate tears as her heart broke into a
thousand pieces.

  Half an hour had passed by the time she’d recovered enough to think straight. Having come to a decision, she quickly repaired her make-up and steeled herself to return to Ron’s room. She was now absolutely determined to get him through this.

  The nurse seemed to be doing something to Ron which involved a rubber tube and a clear bag – the catheter Armstrong had been on about – and she looked startled and very unhappy to see her as she quickly pulled the sheet over Ron’s nakedness. ‘You can’t come in now,’ she hissed. ‘I’m just about to …’

  ‘That can wait,’ said Dolly imperiously and firmly nudged past her to get to Ron.

  ‘Wake up, Ron. I need to talk to you,’ she said urgently.

  Ron stirred and reluctantly opened his eyes. ‘Dolly? What … doing … here?’

  ‘I’m here to tell you to buck up and have the biggest piddle of your life.’

  Ron frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard,’ she retorted, waving away the fretful nurse and reaching for the bottle on the bedside cabinet. ‘You need to pee on your own, Ron. If you don’t you’ll die – and I’m damned if I’ll let you do that, so you’d better listen to me for once and do as you’re told.’

  She ignored the desperate protest from the nurse and shoved the bottle at him. ‘Use this,’ she commanded, ‘and think about running water; imagine you’re standing by a fast-flowing river, and a gushing tap.’

  She spied the washbasin in the corner and hurried over to turn on both taps until the water was splashing everywhere. Returning to Ron, she gripped his hand, desperately drawing him back out of his medicated stupor so he could hold the bottle firmly and in the right place.

  ‘Concentrate, Ron. Concentrate on your bladder. Feel how full it is; put every ounce of that amazing strength of mind to emptying it. Listen to the water, Ron. Listen to how it splashes and think how wonderful it will feel to wee.’