She staggered to her feet, wondering how big the raid was likely to be and whether or not she might make it back to bed that night. She had reached the door when a loud thump the other side made her jump back.
‘You clumsy idiot!’
It was the voice of Lydia Penrose and Daisy had a very good idea of the victim. She opened the door a fraction and saw Lydia picking herself up from the floor, her face an ugly red. A briefcase had disgorged its contents and books and papers lay scattered on the landing.
‘I didn’t push you,’ Willa Jenkins was assuring her colleague. ‘I think you must have caught your foot in the carpet. It’s worn into a hole back there. Look.’ And she pointed behind her to the staircase both girls had just run down.
‘So you’re saying it’s me that’s clumsy!’ Lydia barred the way aggressively, standing with hands on jutting hips. ‘That’s pretty good coming from someone who breaks everything in sight. You can’t have earned a penny since you’ve been here with all the stuff you’ve had to pay for.’
Willa stood her ground. ‘I may have broken a syringe or two, but I didn’t push you.’
‘A syringe or two!’ Lydia snorted. ‘The factory can’t keep up with you, Jenkins, and I distinctly felt your fat little hands in the small of my back.’
For once Willa was proving obstinate. She shook her head, refusing to take the blame.
‘I’m not arguing with rubbish like you,’ Lydia flung at her. ‘You can pick up everything you made me drop.’
When the girl made no move to comply, her tormentor came right up to her and shouted in her face, ‘NOW!’
Even then Willa didn’t immediately do as she’d been ordered and Daisy could see her trying to summon the courage to resist. She knew that feeling. How many times in the orphanage had she tried to fight back and failed? And it was the same for Willa. The girl’s shoulders sagged and she knelt down on the landing and obediently began to heave books and papers into the briefcase.
‘Do it neatly,’ Lydia almost screeched. ‘In the right order. In the order I had them.’
‘I don’t know what that was,’ the girl said miserably.
She was still picking up books when Sister Phillips’ head appeared over the bannister. ‘Get a move on nurses, the raid is almost on us. And that means you, too, Driscoll,’ she scolded, catching sight of Daisy in the doorway.
‘I’m coming, Sister.’ Mrs Phillips was not a woman you disobeyed lightly. She did her job dourly and any nurse who stepped out of line knew she would face a sarcasm that could wither.
But tonight Daisy was willing to risk it. When the senior nurse had disappeared down the stairs followed by her two acolytes, she crept back into her room and shut the door behind her. Tonight she could not bear to be in the company of her fellows, to share the basement’s windowless prison, to lie and listen to the sniffs, the coughs, the fidgeting limbs of a score of bodies, while she longed for forgetfulness. She would stay above ground and hope to sleep once the bombers had passed.
But not yet. The sound of approaching aircraft grew louder. A mad cacophony of guns and bombs burst through the night and assailed the dark, empty streets. With care she lifted the corner of the blackout curtain and squinted through the small square she’d uncovered. She saw immediately that it was another big raid. The sky was laced with light: the beams of searchlight batteries, the stars from bursting shells. A rainbow of colours—green, red, yellow, white—tumbled one over another in endless profusion. Coloured tracers like giant strings of beads winged their way through the sky in search of planes which had no right to be there. Planes that brought death and destruction. Whichever way she looked, from east to west, the night was aglow. Flashes from hundreds of incendiary bombs split the darkness and on the horizon dozens of fires burned, as though they were giant open air furnaces. All around Charterhouse Square, the stone of the buildings was lit with a white glare. Wearily, she let the curtain fall and climbed into bed. She would stay here and take her chances.
It was not until early afternoon that she climbed aboard one of the specially adapted Green Line buses travelling to Hill End. Last night’s raid had wreaked enormous destruction and casualties had been pouring into the hospital from the moment she’d walked on to the ward at seven that morning. As civil defence teams continued to dig people from the rubble, a trickle became a stream and, very quickly, a river. Medical staff had been working through the night and Daisy and her new shift were met by nurses and doctors near to collapse. The official handover was brief; time was short and they could barely hear each other above the jangle of ambulance bells and the sobs of hurt and shocked people. She was set to work immediately, bathing newly admitted casualties, a lengthy business since the wounded were covered from head to foot in brick dust and blood. The nurses worked tirelessly and at great speed, their aprons bloodstained, their young faces marked by fatigue. There was no time to eat. A snatched slice of bread and dripping and a large mug of tea were all Daisy managed before the ward sister called her over.
‘You should go, Driscoll. The escort party is waiting and we can spare you now. The ward is running well.’ Sister Elton gave the glimmer of a smile. It was the nearest she would ever get to giving praise.
Daisy made her way down the two flights of stairs to the street. Her head was aching and her legs hardly felt her own, but there was no possibility of rest. There was always more work to do. A nurse helping to load patients into one of the makeshift ambulances scrambled down to greet her.
‘Where did you get to last night?’ As she spoke, the girl tried unsuccessfully to tuck the straggling ends of her bright red hair into the starched cap.
‘I’m sorry I missed you, Connie, but I worked on. Sister needed extra help and by the time I got back, I was too tired even to speak and went straight to bed. I didn’t even make it to the basement.’
Connie Telford was her closest friend. Their rooms were next door to each other and in the last few months they’d often been rostered to work on the same ward. It was rare for them to miss an evening drink together, but Daisy had been too shocked last night to go in search of her friend and certainly in no mood to exchange confidences.
‘I can’t see us getting this lot settled before midnight.’ Her friend gestured to the line of buses waiting to leave. ‘Looks like we’ll be taking our cocoa at Hill End tonight.’
Daisy smiled a little wanly. If only cocoa was her sole concern. Today had been so hectic that even the reappearance of Gerald in her life had been pushed from her mind. But now he’d returned and was looming large. She would have to sleep at Hill End and would not be back in London until the following morning. There would be no opportunity to send the message he’d demanded. Perhaps if she didn’t respond, he would go away and leave her in peace. If only he would. She could see he was in a dreadful predicament, but there was no way she could help, and meeting him was pointless. All it would achieve would be to bring back the terror and grief of those last days in Jasirapur. It already had, she thought angrily. He demanded loyalty as his right, yet he’d explained nothing. How had he reached England, how had he travelled those thousands of miles alone and without money or support? His rescue by the villagers she could just about understand, but even that was extraordinary. The power of the water had been immense. Had she not faced it herself, standing on that riverbank, ready for the blow that would send her to her death? It was Grayson who’d arrived to rescue her, but too late to save her husband.
Yet somehow Gerald had survived. Survived to be a deserter. He hadn’t returned to his regiment in Jasirapur, hadn’t confessed his wrongdoing. Instead he’d gone into hiding. But he’d be discovered sooner or later, that was certain, so why did he not give himself up and face just punishment? Running and hiding could only be done for so long. And it was cowardly. She, and everyone she knew, was working tirelessly for their country, fighting for its very existence. Should she really be helping a man—husband or not—to abandon his homeland and make a bolt to safety?
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 2
Today the journey to Hill End seemed longer than ever and, once they’d arrived, there were hours of work ahead of them. For the rest of the day while her hands bandaged, soothed, gave medicine and spooned food, Daisy’s mind was elsewhere, circling the same questions, but unable to find a solution. By ten o’clock that evening, the ward was calm and the night staff could be left to manage alone. The ward sister who had accompanied them from Barts shooed her nurses off to bed. At least there was no Mrs Phillips here to monitor the food they were eating or check that bedroom lights were out by ten-thirty. Daisy usually enjoyed the break from the inflexible set of rules at Barts. Nursing in London was a constant challenge and a source of adrenaline, which could buoy her on the most fatiguing of days. But at times its iron conventions made her yearn for a less rigid regime. No chattering, no sitting on beds, no eating—not even a single precious sweet from a patient. And one’s uniform had always to be immaculate: dress uncreased, pinafore starched and without a single lock escaping the small cap. It was no wonder that Connie fought a losing battle with her tumble of thick red hair and was constantly in trouble.
She came bustling up at that moment and grabbed Daisy’s hand, dragging her into the sitting room used by the permanent staff at Hill End. A few nurses were lolling in one or two of the shabby chairs dotted around the room, or flicking idly through a pile of dog-eared magazines while they carried on a desultory conversation. Her friend steered her into the quietest corner.
‘Now, Driscoll, what’s up?’ Hazy green eyes, wide with curiosity, fixed her to the spot.
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ She did her best to look unconcerned.
‘That’s rubbish. Something is definitely wrong. I’ve been watching you since we got here and you’re not yourself. Now tell me what’s happened.’
Daisy reached up and unpinned her cap, shaking out the dark waves as though to free herself of constraint. She stabbed a hatpin through the starched white material. ‘I can’t,’ she said at length. ‘It’s too complicated.’
‘Don’t I know that? Everything to do with you is complicated. Whereas me, I’m an open book.’
Connie’s grin elicited a smile. Daisy could never feel downhearted when she was with her. The girl was chockfull of cheerful common sense and practical to her fingertips. She’d had to be, of course. As the eldest sibling in a crowded Dorset cottage, she’d borne the brunt of her mother’s frequent pregnancies and her father’s forbidding temper. Her sweet nature, though, had gone unvalued and, despite a large family, she appeared to be as lonely as Daisy. It was telling that she’d chosen not to train in Dorchester but to move miles away to the big city. It was probably that solitariness, Daisy mused, that had drawn them together in the first place. But by now they’d become the firmest of friends, confidantes in the daily struggle of nursing through a war.
‘It’s complicated because it doesn’t just concern me.’
‘So who else? Who else do you know?’
Her friend wasn’t giving up, it seemed, and she longed to confide in her. It would be good to share the burden, but it would also be grossly unfair. Gerald had committed a crime and she must be careful not implicate Connie by confessing the trouble she was in.
She felt her hand squeezed and her friend’s voice, low and encouraging. ‘You know that whatever you tell me, I can keep my mouth shut. Who is worrying you so badly?’
Perhaps if she said only a little? She’d already told Connie more than she’d ever thought possible, and months ago had abandoned her ingrained reserve to confide that she’d once been married. Connie was the only one she’d ever told about Gerald.
She took a deep breath and met her friend’s eyes. ‘It’s my husband.’
The girl’s mouth fell open and it was a while before she could speak. ‘But he’s dead.’
‘That’s the problem. It turns out that he isn’t. And he’s managed to trace me—it doesn’t matter how—but he followed me back to the Home last night. I think I’m still in shock.’
‘But how can it be him?’ Connie was floundering. ‘You saw him drown.’ The phrase was blunt and to the point. And it was true, she had seen him drown, or so she’d always thought.
‘He didn’t. His clothes were caught up on one of the floats. You remember, I told you we were at a festival called Teej and there were all these stupendous floats with huge gods and goddesses that were launched into the river. I guess most of them were smashed to pieces when the monsoon broke—the river turned into this raging torrent—but there was enough left of one apparently for Gerald to catch hold of and survive. He was rescued further downstream.’
‘And then?’ Her companion edged forward.
‘I have no idea. How he got to England is a mystery.’
Connie gave a soft whoop. ‘That’s quite a story. Romantic too. Your husband has travelled thousands of miles to claim his wife. You told me things were bad between you before he died, but maybe this is a turning point.’
‘Unlikely. He’s come back because he has nowhere else to go. And he’s come to me only because he needs help. But there’s no way I can help him, and he won’t believe me.’
Her friend wrinkled her forehead, the freckles almost joining each other in puzzlement. ‘What kind of help does he want?’
She took some time to answer, weighing up how much she should say, how much she dare tell even a close friend. It would not make a good hearing and it might make a dangerous one. But Connie was right when she said she could keep her mouth shut. It was a quality that was necessary, Daisy guessed, living amid a large, raucous family.
‘I’ve never said anything before,’ she said slowly, ‘but Gerald was involved in some wicked things in India. He died trying to rescue me from a dangerous gang.’ She saw Connie’s bewildered expression. ‘I told you it was complicated.’
‘A dangerous gang? What on earth did you get yourself involved in?’
‘I made a discovery that I shouldn’t have. Something that could have hung every member of the gang. And they knew I knew, so I had to die.’
‘My God, Daisy!’
‘Gerald found the place they were holding me. He put up a fight and that messed up their plans. It gave the police sufficient time to get to me.’
‘It might not be exactly romantic but—’
‘He wasn’t innocent,’ Daisy said quickly. ‘His association with the gang was what put me in danger.’ She wasn’t going to mention the ‘accidents’ that Gerald had been happy to agree to, accidents that had been meant to frighten her away but hadn’t.
‘In the end he did the decent thing, I know.’ She tried to sound grateful. ‘And he paid a price for it. Not death as it’s turned out, but as good as, I guess.’
Connie’s mind was still in the past. ‘What happened to the gang?’
‘They went to prison and they’re still there. They must believe they drowned Gerald. But his regiment thought he’d died trying to rescue me. The army had no idea of the real situation and they still don’t. He never went back to Jasirapur once he’d recovered from his injuries. If he had, the Indian Army would almost certainly have court-martialled him and then turned him over to the civilian courts. Anish warned me he could face criminal charges, as well as disgrace.’
‘I’m sorry for all these questions, but who is Anish?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She couldn’t bring herself to talk about the man who had masterminded her downfall, yet for whom she was still grieving. ‘The point is that Gerald is a deserter who wants my help, and I don’t know what to do.’
Connie shook her head. ‘You can’t turn him in, that’s for sure. Whatever he’s done, he’s still your husband. Could you persuade him to give himself up?’
‘I doubt it. Gerald is someone who first and foremost looks after his own interests. In this case it’s keeping out of prison. He wants to leave England and travel to a neutral country where he’ll be safe.’
‘And you’re going to help him?’ Her friend had the
ghost of a smile on her lips.
‘Exactly. It’s stupid. There’s no way I can. I’ve no money and I know nobody who could get the papers he needs.’
Connie was thoughtful. ‘But if you could get those papers, it would mean you’d lose him from your life once and for all. I know you think you’ve put the whole Indian thing behind you, Daisy, but it’s clear that you haven’t. Until tonight I didn’t know how awful it had been for you, though I knew something pretty bad had happened. You never talk about the past. Whenever I’ve touched on India or your husband, you’ve brushed it off as though your time there wasn’t worth mentioning. It’s obvious, though, that it still looms large.’
It did and she couldn’t deny it. The frightening months she’d spent in Jasirapur when she’d suffered one so-called accident after another, only to discover that it was her husband behind them. And then to find that her dear friend, Anish, was the ultimate puppet master. The grief at losing him; the guilt at not grieving for Gerald. It had all been too much and she had shut her mind fast. The past could be locked up in a box and the key thrown away. That’s how she’d thought about her time in India. That’s why she’d been unable to be anything but a poor friend to Grayson. He was too involved in the whole business; he was a constant reminder of what she had to forget.
The Nurse's War Page 2