by Daisy Styles
‘Let me take you home, lovie?’ he implored again.
‘I’ve got to see it through,’ Flora said in a muffled voice. ‘I’ve got to do the best I can for the man I once loved. I married him for better or for worse.’
As Malc rocked the suffering woman in his arms, he prayed she’d live long enough to keep her promise.
After a cup of tea and several cigarettes, Malc felt there was no more he could do, so he set off for home.
‘Now remember, call me if things go wrong again. Promise? And the police too if you need help sooner.’
‘I promise,’ Flora replied. ‘Thank you, Malc,’ she said, as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his ruddy cheek.
‘I’d better get a move on,’ Malc said, his normal cheerful grin back again. ‘If my Edna finds out I’ve not been where I said I was going to be, she’ll have mi guts for garters.’
Driving as fast as he could through the dark, winding lanes, Malc got home just before dawn. Too exhausted to wash himself, and scared of wakening his sleeping wife, Malc slipped into his pyjamas, then eased himself under the blankets, where he lay with his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling.
‘God Almighty, what a mess,’ he thought before sleep claimed him.
Edna waited until she could hear her husband’s steady breathing, then she sat up on one elbow to gaze at him. Did he smell of Evening in Paris or was she imagining it? Carefully lowering herself so as not to disturb him, Edna inhaled deeply – and by God! He did smell of perfume! Edna stared blankly at the bedroom wall; she’d never had her husband down as a lady’s man but how in God’s name was he going to explain his absence and the state he was in when he got back to her?
17. Grow Your Own
When Maggie and Nora weren’t working their shifts at the Phoenix, they could often be found on the allotment, where Polly the pig idled away her days, filling out nicely on stale bread and scrapings of potatoes, carrots and swede, which the girls scrounged from other allotments. Though Maggie had been successful at the beginning in getting buckets of food waste from the Phoenix canteen, the cook was obliged to take her on one side and have a word in her ear.
‘You see, lovie,’ she said kindly, ‘our slops are spoken for. I can slip you the odd bucket now and again, but the pig man from over Bury way picks up the canteen’s food waste every week, and if he finds he’s short, well,’ she chuckled. ‘He won’t be very happy!’
Faced with a shortage of food for Polly, the anxious girls turned to lugubrious Percy for advice.
‘Make yer own pig bin,’ he told them. ‘Just stick it in’t street with a notice on’t front and folks will find stuff to drop in.’
‘But won’t it smell?’ Maggie asked.
‘Course it’ll bloody smell, but Polly won’t mind,’ Percy chuckled.
Nora found an old dustbin and attached a big notice – PIGSWILL – to the front. Percy was right: the bin filled up, not only with their own waste food from the cowshed but with their neighbours’ waste as well. Added to which Polly always had something extra special every day from Nora. Her greatest treat so far was a chip butty that Nora had sneaked out of the canteen; given Nora’s passion for chip butties, it was a mark of her love that she willingly sacrificed it to Polly. As the pig slurped ecstatically on the cold chips, Nora smiled. ‘I’ll try and sneak you a chip butty every day, my sweetheart,’ she promised Polly, who grunted solemnly before she lay on her back and rolled in the straw.
Spring showers caused the roof of Polly’s pen to leak. Percy was, as ever, forthcoming with advice. ‘Bung up the ’oles in’t roof so yon pig dun’t get soaked t’ut skin,’ he said. ‘If she gets cowd she’ll lose weight and, given we’ve got less than two months to fatten her up for’t wedding, we don’t want that, do we?’ he said, giving a knowing wink in Polly’s direction.
Donning navy-blue overalls borrowed from Malc’s stores, the two girls plugged up the leaking holes of the corrugated roof and reinforced all four shed walls, which, if Polly were to lean against them for a comforting scratch, would collapse underneath her bulk. Nora took it upon herself to ensure that Polly had a deep straw bed to settle down on every night.
‘Bloody life of Riley!’ Percy scoffed as they all stood by the pen watching Polly, lying on her back with her little trotters in the air, wriggling contentedly on her comfy bedding. ‘Who’s added the extra litter?’ he asked.
Maggie’s eyes swivelled in the direction of Nora. ‘You?’ she asked.
Nora blushed. ‘I thought it might turn frosty overnight,’ she confessed. ‘Anyway,’ she quickly added, ‘Percy just said we don’t want her dropping weight.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘But I never said treat her like the Queen of Sheba. You’ll regret being so soft, lass,’ Percy warned. ‘This beast is for the chop.’
Every time anybody mentioned Polly’s inevitable end, Nora felt sick. Since she’d met Polly, she’d not been able to eat any rationed food with a shred of pork in it, and she saved any little titbits, an apple or a crust, for when she visited Polly, who always lolloped up to Nora, grunting in happy anticipation. Of course poor Nora didn’t dare to voice her disquiet – the pig was destined to be Maggie’s wedding breakfast – but she dreaded the morning when Percy would slit Polly’s throat.
It seemed that Percy could get hold of anything; he always had a friend who knew a friend (always over Ramsbottom way) that could lay his hands on whatever they required. When he appeared one day pushing an old trolley piled high with trays of seedlings, Polly frisked forward, clearly expecting to eat the lot.
‘Nay, not you, missis,’ chuckled Percy, as he brought the trolley to a stop before Maggie and Nora. ‘These are for the lasses.’
Both girls stared at the trays containing little seedlings no bigger than the length of a metal nail.
‘What’re they?’ Nora asked unashamedly.
Percy did a double-take. ‘Hast thou ne’er set eyes on seedlings before?’
The girls shook their heads; though they lived on the edge of the countryside and several of their neighbours kept an allotment, neither of them had ever shown any interest in growing anything – up until now.
‘You’re looking at carrots, parsnips, peas, beans, kale and cabbage!’ Percy exclaimed. ‘Veg for your wedding breakfast,’ he added as he grinned at Maggie.
‘Them weedy things?’ Nora said dismissively. ‘They’ll blow away in the first high wind.’
Maggie, though an inexperienced gardener, was a lot more enthusiastic than her doubtful friend. ‘Are you serious, Percy?’ she asked in delight.
‘Aye, lass, I’m right proper serious – where do you think veg comes from? D’yer think it falls out o’t sky?’ he teased.
Keen to show she was eager to learn, Maggie asked, ‘What do we do with them?’
‘We’ll keep ’em undercover, let ’em get stronger,’ Percy replied. ‘Then when the weather’s a bit warmer we’ll plant ’em out in separate rows, water and weed ’em and hopefully bring ’em on enough for your wedding do, lass.’
Maggie glowed with excitement. ‘For the first time since I started planning our wedding, things are working out!’ she announced.
‘Thank God for that,’ naughty Nora muttered under her breath.
‘I’m not saying it’ll all be plain sailing,’ Percy quickly intervened. ‘It’s back-breaking work, and the slugs could destroy the entire crop, not to mention the weather up here on’t moors, one sharp frost and the whole bloody lot’ll be gone.’
Seeing Maggie’s lovely face fall, Percy quickly spoke again. ‘Don’t fret: we’ll know if there’s a frost coming, and we can cover ’em up, keep ’em warm,’ he assured her.
‘And what about the snails?’ Maggie fretted.
Percy grimaced. ‘We can always pour boiling water over ’em and boil the buggers to death!’
‘So,’ bright-eyed Maggie enthused, ‘when do we start?’
‘No time like the present,’ Percy replied with undisguised glee.
‘Aye,’ said Percy as he surveyed the overgrown allotment with a disapproving eye. ‘But before we even get to that stage we’ve got to dig this bugger over,’ he added, pointing at the riotous weeds that would strangle any delicate seedlings. Grabbing spades from his trolley, he handed one to Maggie and another to Nora. ‘Dig for Victory, lasses!’ he chuckled. ‘As Mr Churchill says!’
‘But …’ grumbled Nora. ‘We start our afternoon shift in an hour and we haven’t even had our dinner.’
‘You go home and brew up whilst we get cracking,’ Percy instructed. ‘And be sharp about it – many hands make light work.’
When Nora walked into the cowshed, she found Rosa and Julia washing up their lunch utensils. ‘We left some spam sandwiches and radishes for you,’ Rosa said, when she saw her friend’s flushed face.
‘Thanks,’ said ravenous Nora, grabbing a butty. ‘I can’t stop,’ she quickly added. ‘I’ve left Maggie at the allotment with Winston Churchill!’
‘Winston Churchill?’ Rosa inquired with a grin.
‘Bossy Percy!’ Nora laughed, as she boiled a kettle of water and washed out the teapot. ‘He’s got more energy in his little finger than I have in my whole body. If it weren’t for Maggie and her blasted wedding plans, I’d have now’t to do with Percy!’ she added, as she stomped out of the cowshed bearing mugs of tea and spam butties on a tin tray.
A few days later, as Edna and Nora travelled on the bus to Wrigg Hall, Edna said, ‘Now you’ve got an allotment, you’ll have something new to chat to your patients about.’
‘Do you think so?’ Nora asked uncertainly.
‘You’ve had me in stitches telling me all about Percy and Polly!’ Edna assured her.
‘I’m glad I brought a smile to your face,’ Nora replied. ‘You haven’t seemed your usual smiling self recently.’
Edna lit up a Woodbine as she said, ‘I’ve had a lot on mi mind, that’s all.’
Nora’s face registered genuine concern. ‘Ooh, lovie, I hope everything’s all right?’
Recalling her husband arriving home smelling like he’d just left a bordello, Edna muttered through a cloud of smoke, ‘So do I, Nora, so do I.’
Nora couldn’t wait to get to Ward D6 and tell Peter her news, but, to her surprise, she found his bed empty.
‘Where’s Peter gone?’ she asked the Sister.
‘He was taken down to theatre this morning,’ she replied. ‘We have a visiting plastic surgeon from Birmingham,’ Sister explained. ‘He’s been doing a lot of pioneering work on men with disfiguring face wounds.’
Nora’s stomach gave a nervous flip. ‘What will they do to the poor lad?’ she nervously inquired.
‘The procedure is of a somewhat experimental nature,’ Sister answered truthfully. ‘The surgeon will take good skin from Peter’s thigh and use it to rebuild his face,’ she explained.
Nora thought she was going to be sick; seeing her turn a deathly white, the kind Sister quickly sat her down and gave her a glass of water, which she dutifully sipped.
‘I know it sounds ghastly, but I have seen excellent results,’ she assured Nora. ‘Peter really is in the very best of hands.’
Feeling slightly less dizzy, Nora asked another question. ‘What about his bad eye? Can they fix that too?’
‘No, Peter’s sight is completely gone in his left eye,’ Sister replied. ‘Sadly there’s nothing anybody can do about that.’
‘What happened to him?’ Nora asked for the first time since she’d started her voluntary work.
‘As far as I know, his regiment was caught up in enemy crossfire.’
‘He’s so young,’ Nora murmured sadly.
‘Twenty-one,’ Sister told her.
‘Same age as me,’ Nora sighed guiltily. ‘And what have I done to help win this terrible war?’
‘You’re here helping us,’ Sister reminded her. ‘The men enjoy your visits, Peter especially so.’
Touched by her words, Nora smiled and rose to go.
‘I’d better get a move on or I’ll miss the bus back to town,’ she said. ‘Please will you give Peter my best wishes when he comes round.’
‘Of course I will,’ Sister assured her. ‘I’m sure he’ll be very grateful.’
18. Suspicions
Kit wafted a letter high in the air as she called out to Maggie and Nora, ‘Got a letter off Gladys!’
Anxious for Kit, now heavily pregnant, Maggie pulled out a chair and pushed a mug of tea forwards. ‘Sit down, sweetheart – you look big enough to go into labour,’ she half joked.
‘Thanks, darlin’,’ sighed Kit as she lowered herself down on to the chair and rearranged her stomach, which was squashed into her tight overall. ‘Glory be to God, this child of mine is a regular bruiser!’ she said fondly, as she reached for her tea.
‘Was Billy hard to carry?’ Nora asked curiously.
Kit’s lovely face clouded over. ‘Well, now, that’s another story,’ she said sadly. ‘I was so busy hiding my pregnancy from mi dah I don’t recall anything other than the terror of being found out.’
Maggie put a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘You can enjoy every minute of this little one,’ she said softly.
‘To be honest, Ian’s enjoying it more than me!’ Kit laughed. ‘He and Billy are so excited; Billy wants a baby brother, but Ian would die for a little girl, big softie that he is.’
Kit’s dark eyes lit up with love as she talked of her husband, whom she simply adored. ‘He’s keen for me to stop working, and I will when I can’t get behind the bench any more,’ she told her friends.
‘Wonder how Julia will survive without you?’ Maggie mused.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Kit said cheerfully.
‘But once you’ve gone she’ll have no pals to talk to in the filling shed,’ Maggie pointed out.
‘They all think she’s a snooty Southerner,’ Nora added.
Kit, who always found something positive to say about anybody, replied with characteristic optimism, ‘Julia’s a good woman and a kind one too – she’s just quiet and reserved.’
‘HUMPH! Try living with her,’ Nora snorted.
In an effort to change the subject, Kit tore open the envelope. ‘Let’s see what our lovely Glad has to say,’ she said excitedly.
Dear Kit,
How are you all?
Life here is wonderful! I know it sounds silly, given we struggle with the nightly bombing raids and the wretched air-raid shelters, plus the long hours we work, sometimes up to eighteen hours a day, but I am so very happy! Reg and I see more of each other when we’re working than out of work hours – even so we get on better than ever. Sometimes the other nurses tease me for being handsome Dr Lloyd’s girlfriend, but I don’t care! I’m so proud of Reg and the work he does on the poor boys brought in from the front line. The staff at St Thomas’ are such a dedicated team, working their socks off round the clock to support their patients, whose cheerfulness and bravery often bring tears to my eyes.
Gladys’s letter went on to talk about London, the weather, rationing, her digs and the latest films she’d been to see. She concluded the letter by saying:
I miss you all so much, I wish I could see you. I bet you would love the West End, even though it’s been blasted to bits by the German bombers. Got to go, the damn air-raid siren’s going off again. See you at Maggie’s wedding – not long now. Write back with your news.
Hugs and kisses,
Glad
xxx
Around the same time Rosa also received a letter from Gladys, an answer to her own recent one begging for her friend’s help. When she saw it in her pigeon-hole and recognized the familiar writing, Rosa (unlike Kit) had no intention of sharing her correspondence with anybody. She quickly hid the letter in her overall pocket and read it later when she was alone.
Dearest Rosa,
You make me feel anxious – what�
��s happened to you? Of course you’re welcome to come and stay with me; I shall worry until I see you. If you need to get in touch urgently, you can phone me on the ward – Southwark 1100.
All my love,
Glad
xxx
Rosa sighed with relief when she finished the letter – thank God she had Glad to rely on. By being in London and visiting ports, she hoped and prayed she’d be able to pick up some useful information – certainly more than she’d ever pick up by doing nothing and staying in Pendleton! Much as she loved Maggie and Nora, she was determined not to speak to them of her plan; she didn’t want them to get into trouble if they were questioned. The less they knew the better, though she sensed that Julia, who was too clever by half, might have sensed something.
Not long ago she’d caught Rosa flicking through the little black notebook which she’d carried with her all the way through France when she was on the run from the Nazis. It contained some of her memories, some names and some codes, but more importantly it held several small black-and-white photographs of Gabriel and a little poem he’d written for her. Rosa had always kept the notebook a secret; it was the last link she had with her past and the last photographs that had been taken of Gabriel just before the war destroyed their family life. She’d been so locked in her own thoughts, gazing at the crinkled black-and-white photos and thinking of her brother, that she didn’t hear Julia walk up behind her. A discreet cough had made her jump, and immediately she snatched up her precious belongings and hurried to her bedroom, where she’d hidden her notebook in her underwear drawer. Since then Rosa had become neurotically aware of Julia’s penetrating, clever green eyes that always seemed to be watching her.
The day that Rosa chose to run away came down to one essential factor – it had to be a day when all of her housemates were out the longest. After listening in on several conversations, both in the cowshed and at the canteen, Rosa decided that the following Thursday would be the best day to make her escape. Maggie would be at the allotment with Percy before she clocked on at the Phoenix, and Nora and Julia would be at Wrigg Hall before they too started their shifts.