by Daisy Styles
‘Oooooh! And where was that, then?’
‘The hospital,’ Gladys said bleakly. ‘It’s not like I go anywhere else.’
‘Where in the hospital? The emergency department?’ Ethel joked.
‘The operating theatre,’ Gladys retorted.
‘Oooh, I hope the poor bugger pulled through?’ irrepressible Ethel joked.
‘He’s not a patient, he’s a doctor; I met him in another hospital, somewhere else,’ she prevaricated. The last thing she wanted was to tell gossipy Ethel that she used to be an entertainer with ENSA – she’d never hear the end of it!
Ethel paused mid-drag of her fag. ‘A bleeding doctor!’ she exclaimed. ‘Aren’t we the lucky one?’
‘It was awkward,’ Gladys confessed.
‘I’d like a bit of awkward with a doctor!’ Ethel tittered.
Gladys groaned under her breath; why had she even bothered to tell Ethel about Reggie? Then, to her surprise, Ethel all but echoed her own words. ‘Forget him, sweetheart. From what I know about doctors, and I speak from experience,’ she added with a saucy wink, ‘he’ll have nurses queuing round the block for him. You might be a good-looker, darlin’, but best to let the bugger go.’
Gladys smiled sadly. ‘Don’t worry, Ethel – we both let each other go a long time ago.’
Gladys didn’t see Reggie for another week; then, one afternoon as they were both hurrying along a hospital corridor, they literally walked slap into each other. Gladys felt like she’d been punched in the stomach when she saw him, and he felt his knees go weak. Before she shot off like a startled rabbit, Reggie blurted out, ‘I was sorry I never got a chance to say goodbye to you before you left Naples.’
‘It was a bit rushed,’ she said quickly.
‘But the ENSA troupe stayed and you left,’ he said pointedly.
‘Yes, I had to, a new posting,’ she lied, and from the look in his piercing blue eyes she knew he didn’t believe her.
‘So nothing to do with Captain Miles?’ said Reggie, rashly grasping the bull by the horns.
Gladys’s paled. So he did know she’d been involved with the vile captain – but did he know the truth or just idle gossip? Playing for time, she said sharply, ‘Why would you ask that?’
‘Just something I heard,’ he told her.
Gladys’s eyes filled with tears. Oh, what had he heard? That she was a little tart? An easy lay? Wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole, she struggled hard to stop herself from bursting into tears. She’d left ENSA and hidden herself away in the Phoenix Factory specifically to get away from humiliating conversations like this one. Just hearing the captain’s wretched name brought back unbidden a string of nightmare memories: his mouth over hers, pushing her struggling against a tree, him gripping her hands tightly behind her back as he ripped at her clothes, walking away from her whistling as she lay weeping on the ground where he’d left her. Feeling like she was going to make an even bigger fool of herself if she didn’t immediately get away, Gladys dodged around Reggie. ‘If you’ll excuse me. I’ve got to get back to my ward.’
Seeing her anguished face, and struck by the thought that perhaps such anguish indicated a more complicated story than the one he’d imagined, Reggie gently caught her arm. ‘Gladys!’ he cried. ‘Can’t we spend some time together, you know, catch up?’
Seeing the bewildered look in his eyes, Gladys suddenly felt sorry for Reggie; it wasn’t his fault Captain Miles had raped her – why was she making him suffer?
‘Could we meet tomorrow, just for a drink?’ he asked quickly. ‘When we’ve both finished work?’
Gladys’s heart skipped a beat – should she? Wouldn’t it be best to just leave it? She’d be gone soon anyway. But, as she gazed into his handsome face, she heard herself saying, ‘All right, ring me on the ward when you’re finished in theatre; we could perhaps go for a walk,’ she replied.
‘Yes,’ he said with a relieved smile. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
But tomorrow never came. A truckload of wounded soldiers fresh from the Front arrived that afternoon, and when Reggie phoned to say he was free Gladys had no choice but to tell him that she couldn’t leave the ward. ‘How about later?’ he suggested. ‘We could go for a drink.’
Thinking she’d be free by the evening, Gladys agreed to meet Reggie at the entrance to the hospital at nine o’clock. ‘That should give me enough time to tidy myself up before I meet him,’ she thought to herself. But back in the nurses’ dormitory, just as she was making herself up in the communal bathroom, the wretched air-raid siren went off and there was no alternative but to grab her nurse’s cape and gas mask and follow the line of nurses into the Underground shelter, where Gladys slumped on the ground and promptly burst into tears of sheer frustration. Even the sight of the kindly WVS ladies handing out mugs of tea and meat-paste sandwiches didn’t raise her spirits. For the first time since Gladys had arrived at St Thomas’, she was overcome by homesickness. What wouldn’t she give to be back in the cowshed with Rosa and her dear friends; how she missed their strength and humour and most of all their love. Feeling utterly wretched, Gladys pulled her nurse’s cape around herself and tried to sleep. ‘Hopefully Reggie will understand why I didn’t show up,’ she thought to herself as she dropped off.
Reggie, who’d been standing at the hospital entrance waiting for Gladys, also heard the air-raid siren. ‘Bugger!’ he fumed. If ever a couple were fated not to meet, it had to be him and Gladys; everything seemed to conspire against them whenever they made any kind of arrangement.
‘Come along, sir,’ the night porter said as he urged people to safety. ‘Jerry’s back. Get yourself into the shelter right away.’
Stubbing out his cigarette, Reggie joined the line of people hurrying into the Underground, which was packed with local families and staff from St Thomas’. Walking around the WVS ladies, Reggie looked for somewhere to sit and his eyes landed on Gladys curled up on the dirty floor with her cape pulled around her. Reggie’s heart contracted when he saw her long, beautiful brunette hair tumbled around her pale, tired face. There were grubby smudges on her cheeks from the tears she’d shed, and her full lips were parted as she breathed softly in her sleep. Moving quietly so as not to disturb her, Reggie removed his warm overcoat, which he tucked around Gladys, then he settled down beside her, raising her gently so she wasn’t sleeping on the floor. He propped her against his shoulder, then he too fell asleep. The all-clear siren woke them both with a jolt. Gladys blinked in disbelief when she saw Reggie beside her. ‘How did you get here?’ she mumbled blearily.
‘Same way as you, I suppose,’ he replied with a yawn. ‘I thought you’d be more comfortable leaning against me than lying on the filthy floor.’
The air-raid warden interrupted their conversation. ‘Everybody out – Jerry’s gone home and so should you,’ he yelled.
Out in the bleak, raw, dawn light, Reggie suggested they should find some breakfast. In a nearby crowded Lyons Café, he bought tea and toast for both of them. ‘I have to admit,’ he confessed as he set the food down before Gladys, ‘I never expected to see you in a nurse’s uniform.’
Wrapping her hands around the mug of tea he offered, Gladys said with a shrug, ‘ENSA life, all that travelling, it just didn’t suit me.’
Remembering Gladys in her performing role, beautiful, talented, radiant – and obviously having the time of her life, Reggie simply didn’t believe her. He’d heard the rumours about Captain Miles, and knew he was a renowned Lothario; from the way Gladys had reacted to his rather abrupt question when they’d bumped into each other in the hospital corridor, clearly these rumours were true – or at least partially. But, remembering now the look of intense anguish on Gladys’s face when he’d mentioned Miles’s name, something about the whole thing didn’t sit easily with him – something irked. He vividly recalled Gladys’s deep dislike of the lecherous captain; Reggie had never had the impression that she was mad about Miles – quite the opposite, in fact. He’d seen
the look on her face when Miles flirted with her; to Reggie it was clear she had detested the man. He knew in his gut something bad had happened to her, something so bad she’d had to run away, but she clearly wasn’t going to tell him the truth, even though he’d asked her several times. He shrugged; he wasn’t going to push it if she wasn’t ready.
After telling Reggie that her training period at St Thomas’ would finish at the end of the week, he suggested, she thought out of politeness, that they should meet up for a drink on her last night. Having agreed a time and a place, they bade each other a rather formal goodbye and hurried off to their different places of work – Reggie feeling hurt that she clearly didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth and Gladys rather regretting that she’d made yet another date with persuasive Dr Lloyd.
The next two nights saw no air-attacks, which was a blessed relief; apart from the fact that Gladys could sleep in her own bed, it also gave her time to catch up with some little jobs that had been neglected. Standing in her dressing gown in the nurses’ laundry, she washed and rinsed a pile of underwear, which she hung on a large clothes-horse to dry. Just as she was finishing her task, Ethel walked in with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘They said I’d find you here,’ she exclaimed as she lit up a Woodbine. ‘What was the name of the doctor fella you was moping on about the other night?’
Gladys looked surprised but answered her question. ‘Dr Lloyd, Reggie Lloyd.’
‘Tall, gorgeous, big-blue eyes, always in theatre?’ Ethel persisted.
Gladys was suddenly cautious; she really didn’t want another in-depth conversation with Ethel about Reggie. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she answered casually.
‘I was dead right to tell you to forget him,’ Ethel said before she paused to take a deep drag on her cigarette. The hairs on the back of Gladys’s neck began to prickle.
‘What’s all this about, Ethel?’
‘He’s only walking out with one of the theatre sisters,’ Ethel told her. ‘You know, the posh blonde one who thinks she’s a notch above everybody else?’
Gladys stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked sharply. ‘Could it be silly hospital gossip?’ she added.
‘No gossip, my sweetheart – heard her talking about love’s young dream with mi own ears,’ Ethel continued. ‘I was dropping something off in theatre and she was chatting with another nurse – she said she was head over heels with Dr Lloyd and had been since he first asked her out three months ago.’
Gladys’s pulse began to race; she knew he would have a girlfriend! And for God’s sake, she fumed, why the hell not? He was handsome, charming, talented, a catch for any woman. So why was he messing about with her? Rekindling some faded love affair for old times’ sake or much, much worse, after all the gossip he’d heard about her behaviour in Naples, did he think she was an easy lay and he’d pick up where Captain Miles left off? With blood pounding in her temples, Gladys railed furiously at herself, ‘You fool! You stupid idiot!’ She should never have got involved with Reggie all over again. Well it was too late now; yet again she’d made a bloody fool of herself, and she had only herself to blame. Picking up her belongs, she headed towards the door. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Ethel.’
‘You’re welcome, love. Always listen to your auntie Ethel – she knows all about what’s going on in this place.’
Gladys didn’t go to meet Reggie, who waited for her for over half an hour in the pouring rain. Eventually – wet and angry at being snubbed by a woman who kept bewitching him with her sparkling blue eyes – Reggie walked away determined that he was going to put Gladys Johnson once and for all out of his mind.
21. ‘The Winner is …’
When Rosa was invited to the award ceremony at the exhibition, she once again had to go to the Salford art gallery by herself. Her relatives in Manchester had the flu; Gladys was in London; and Edna and Malc would be in the despatch yard in Edna’s mobile chip shop, serving food to hungry Bomb Girls coming off their shifts. Rosa could have invited Nora and Maggie, but she thought they’d feel awkward and out of place in an art gallery; for sure, Nora would. Everywhere she went was too posh for her! And Rosa thought it would be unkind to invite Maggie without Nora, so she let the matter lie. When it came to it, she rather liked the idea of going on her own: she could take a last look at all the artwork before the exhibition was dismantled and perhaps meet the other artists, with whom she’d barely had a chance to chat.
After she’d finished her early-morning shift, Rosa hurried home to the cowshed, where she had lived alone since Gladys departure to St Thomas’. Running a rather tepid bath, Rosa soaked away the smell of explosives that seemed forever to cling to her body. After she’d washed her hair, she sat in front of the crackling wood-burner and, wrapped in a thick towel, she dried and brushed her long hair until it shone like dark mahogany. Working on a bomb line removed much of the women’s femininity: out of necessity, their hair was banished into a turban, all jewellery was banned, and hair grips and clips were strictly taboo. Suddenly, with her hair swinging in long, silky curls around her shoulders, Rosa wanted to pamper herself; she wanted just for a few hours to feel like a woman.
After changing into her underwear, Rosa found her only pair of nylons, which she attached to the clips of her suspender belt, then she searched through her meagre wardrobe trying to find something to wear. Staring at her second-hand tweed skirts and cardigans, Rosa sighed. She had a pretty pale-pink silk blouse, but none of her skirts did it any justice. Wondering if Gladys might have something she could wear, Rosa looked inside her wardrobe, where a black pleated skirt immediately caught her eye. Feeling a bit guilty, but knowing that Gladys wouldn’t mind her borrowing it, Rosa slipped into the skirt, which perfectly complemented her pink blouse and also brought out the glossy sheen in her dark hair. She added the lovely solid-silver bangle that Myrtle had left her, and, after appraising herself in the small mirror in the bathroom, she grabbed her hat, coat and bag, and set off down the hill to Pendleton to catch the bus into Salford.
It was pitch dark by the time Rosa hopped off the bus and hurried towards the gallery, where all the blackout blinds were pulled down tight. She blinked when she stepped out of the gloom and into the illuminated gallery, where the vibrant colours from all the exhibits lit up the room with jewel-like hues. ‘Lovely to see you again, Miss Falco,’ the owner of the gallery said as he approached with a tray on which were fluted glasses of sweet sherry. ‘Do help yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ Rosa replied, taking a full glass.
‘Your pieces have proved to be very popular,’ the owner enthused. ‘We’ve had some offers, if you’d like to sell any of them.’
Rosa gazed fondly at her sketches of the Bomb Girls and shook her head. ‘I have to ask my friends for permission to sell,’ she answered shyly.
‘Of course,’ he retorted. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can see the reporter from the Manchester Guardian has just arrived,’ the owner said excitedly and dashed off to greet her.
Sipping her sherry, Rosa was drawn to the paintings of women assembling fighter planes in a vast hangar; yet again she admired Roger Carrington’s brushwork and his use of colour. ‘He’s good,’ Rosa mused. ‘In fact, he’s very good, quite a talent.’ The female workers were dressed not unlike the Bomb Girls, but instead of working at ground level they were high up on scaffolding or perched precariously on ladders, putting together sections of planes that were ten times the size of themselves. Rosa jumped and spilt her sherry as a voice directly behind her said, ‘Hard work, eh?’
‘Ooooh!’ she gasped as she wiped the sticky sherry off Gladys’s pleated skirt. ‘You startled me,’ she said, and turned to face a tall man wearing an RAF uniform.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he exclaimed as he took a clean hankie from his pocket and helped her mop up the sherry. ‘I’m such a big clumsy oaf!’
Rosa gazed up into the stranger’s handsome face, which was dominated by a shock of tawny brown hair that fell in a fringe above his co
mmanding hazel eyes. In the second that their eyes locked, Rosa felt a blush rising from her neck; willing it to go away, she took a deep breath, only to feel the wretched blush spreading to her cheeks, which started to glow a pretty pink.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he added as a hasty after-thought.
Feeling thoroughly flustered, Rosa quickly introduced herself: ‘I am Rosa Falco.’
The smiling man, who had a charming spatter of freckles across his tanned cheeks, gripped her hand and exclaimed, ‘ROSA FALCO! I love your work!’
Rosa gulped as she felt the blush spreading even further into her hairline. What on earth was the matter with her? Trembling and dithering like a schoolgirl at everything this rather loud extrovert man said to her.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Rosa!’ As he pumped her hand and grinned at her, Rosa mumbled, ‘And what is your name, sir?’
‘That’s me,’ he replied, pointing at the pictures on the wall. ‘They’re mine.’
Now it was Rosa’s turn to exclaim in delight, ‘You’re Roger Carrington!’ she cried. ‘I love your work too!’
After Roger had found her another sherry, which trembling Rosa could hardly hold still, they found a narrow bench on which they perched and stared at each other.
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ he told her. ‘The RAF couldn’t spare me,’ he added ruefully. ‘I’m stationed in Norfolk – we don’t get much time off these days, but when I did I came straight up here. Bloody hell!’ he chuckled. ‘Couldn’t be more different to flat old Norfolk – all hills and valleys, much colder too.’
Rosa gazed at him in wonder; he was the most open, direct, unembarrassed, confident person she had ever met in her life. His body seemed to exude warmth: it was as if the sun poured out of him, she thought, as she stared, mesmerized by the flecks of gold in his eyes. Sitting closer as more and more people crowded around the exhibits, Rosa discovered that Roger Carrington was in fact Squadron Leader Carrington stationed near King’s Lynn in faraway Norfolk. She listened in rapt fascination as he talked about his experience of painting the women in his pictures.