I propped myself back up on my pillows once they’d gone and thought about things. Mainly about that horrendous gash right across my stomach. Just as well I didn’t have a boyfriend, I thought. That was enough to put anyone off.
Even Scott. Especially Scott.
Oh, yes, especially Scott. Scott, who had the obviously un- scarred perfect Renza.
I’d thought about Scott quite a bit. I knew it was daft, but it had helped to while away some of the more scary hours. I re-lived every minute of the night we’d met. Over and over again. I’d never forget him, I knew that. I wondered where he was… Leighton Buzzard? No, they’d probably left for Jersey now to spend Christmas, and then France for the New Year. And no doubt the glorious sultry Renza would be anchored to his side.
Ah, well…. water under the bridge, as my Nan always said – or ships that pass in the night? Whichever it was, I knew I’d never see Scott again.
I gingerly touched my scar and smiled. He’d made me promise not to die – and I hadn’t. I hoped, not that he’d ever know, that he’d be pleased.
In fact, once I’d realised that I hadn’t died, and once the soreness had lessened and I’d had all the drips and tubes removed, I’d quite enjoyed my stay in hospital so far. It was like a little closed-in world. Like anything on the outside had ceased to exist.
There were 12 beds in the ward, 6 on each side, and we’d all been admitted at much the same time for all manner of “women’s problems” and become good friends. With no regard to emotional clashes regarding treatment, we were a mixed bunch: Joan and Maureen on either side of me were about the same age as my mum and had had hysterectomies, then there were the four girls on the other side of the ward who were having abortions for various reasons, two ladies having fertility treatment, and another two expectant mums who were having to stay in hospital for the duration of their confinements.
And then there was The Woman in the End Bed.
She didn’t belong to our chummy club. She refused to speak to us. None of knew why she was in – unlike the rest of us, obviously, she hadn’t shared the most intimate details of her treatment – but she looked really old and had long straggly hair and she roared all night long, having awful nightmares, and then got up and walked the ward chain-smoking.
I didn’t smoke, but those who did were allowed to smoke in the day room, but I think the nurses, who all smoked in their nurses station room – it was like a pea-souper when you went past it if you got up in the night for wee – were scared of her, so they turned a blind eye.
I felt sorry for The Woman in the End Bed.
Mr Glendenning, accompanied by Miss Edwards and the students, made his daily round, and seemed increasingly happy with my progress. All in all, once I’d stopped feeling ill, it was almost like being on holiday. Dad had bought me two massive doorstopper books: The Foxes of Harrow by Frank Yerby, and Mr Britling Sees It Through by H. G. Wells. I lost myself in them. I read anything and everything – and these long, long stories were absolutely perfect to while away the hours.
Maureen and Joan were both a bit shocked that I read so much and so avidly. They both said the serial in their Woman’s Weekly was enough for them.
And despite what everyone had said, the food wasn’t bad, and now I didn’t have a constant stomach ache I’d regained my appetite and ate everything that was put in front of me. Then, at night, when the trolley came round, we had a choice of drinks – milky ones like Horlicks, or either a small tipple of spirits or a glass of stout. I had stout because Sister Wolstenholme said it would help my low iron levels. I’d never had Guinness before, not being much of a drinker, and it tasted a bit odd, but mixed with my various pills, it always sent me off to sleep very nicely.
I’d even had my hair done by the hospital hairdresser when she came round the ward. We all had. It was odd to have your hair washed and set (she only did one style but I wasn’t out to impress anyone so I didn’t care) sitting on the bed, but lovely to have clean hair again even if my fringe was a bit frizzier than I’d have liked.
And we had hospital radio on headphones. I loved this and sang along happily. Whoever played or requested the records seemed to like the Paper Dolls and the Caravelles a lot… And The Love Affair’s ‘Everlasting Love’. Yes, I loved this one and dreamed foolishly of Scott. Just more music, more lyrics, I thought, that would never leave me.
At visiting time, the ward was like one big noisy party. Everyone had visitors at the same time – except The Woman In The End Bed – no one ever came to see her. She just sat there, in bed, glaring, watching everyone else being hugged and chatted to. I felt really sorry for her, but when Maureen, Joan and I had tried to talk to her she’d told us all to piss off and spat on the floor. We gave her a wide berth after that. So sad.
Mum and Dad visited every evening, Vix and Jeff, and the girls from work, and other friends popped in, and my bed was surrounded by flowers and grapes and Get Well Soon cards. Now I hadn’t died, I thought being in hospital wasn’t too bad at all.
Stella’s Diary
December 23rd 1968 – morning
‘Right,’ Sister Wolstenholme beamed at me after Mr Glendenning and his entourage had left the ward following his morning rounds. ‘We’re getting rid of you at last, Stella. You’re being discharged.’
It seemed everyone on our ward – except the long-term confinement ladies and The Woman In The End Bed – was also being discharged.
‘They like a clear-out before Christmas,’ Joan said knowledgeably, as we all sat on our beds, surrounded by our clothes and outdoor coats and boots and bags, and clutching our large sealed envelopes containing the letter for our local doctor, details of further outpatients appointments and prescriptions. ‘Makes sense. Them poor nurses need a Christmas, too.’
I was so excited to be going home. Yes, ok, I’d been a bit homesick. And I’d missed the dogs and cats and my Nans and Grandpas. And having a proper giggle with Vix. And I wanted to talk to someone about Scott. And she was the only person who knew and who would understand.
We’d all had to make arrangements for being picked up: mine, because we weren’t on the phone at home, meant one of the nurses leaving a message for my dad at the transport depot where he was a lorry driver, and he and Mum would come and get me as soon as they could. I knew I might have a long wait, as I sadly waved goodbye to Joan and Maureen and the other women who had become the only inhabitants of my world for so long.
‘Have they spoken to my dad?’ I asked Mary. ‘Do you know what time they’ll be here? Can I get dressed yet?’
I hadn’t been out of my Marks and Spencer’s white cotton Victoriana nighties and pink silk 1920s wrap and fluffy slippers since I’d graduated from the hospital gowns. I knew I had to wear something loose – and very big knickers – so that nothing touched the scar. I’d brought one of the short floaty frocks I’d made last year and a pair of pull-on wide-legged black Biba trousers I’d found at a jumble sale, and couldn’t wait to wear proper clothes again.
‘Ah… um….’ Mary mumbled. ‘You’re not exactly going home…’
‘Yes I am.’ I laughed. ‘Look – I’ve got all my papers and medicines and things.’
‘Yes, you’re leaving here, but,’ Mary bustled round tidying the top of my empty locker and not looking at me, ‘you’re not going home. Because you need daily heat treatment, you’re going into Harbury Green Cottage Hospital. They have the right heat machine there. Your dad has been phoned. Your parents know what’s happening. The ambulance will take you in about half an hour.’
I stared at her. She had to be joking. The Cottage Hospital, on the outskirts of our village, was only about fifteen minutes’ walk from my home. It was where old people, with no families to care for them in Harbury Green, went to die.
‘I’m not going there.’
‘You are.’ Mary stared me down from under her neat cap. ‘You have to.’
‘I’m not going. It’s where people die.’
‘It’s a very good Cottag
e Hospital and Convalescent Home. That’s why you’re going there. For convalescence. You’re fit enough to not need us anymore, but not well enough to go home.’
I felt fine. I didn’t need to convalesce – and if I did, I’d do it at home. With my mum and dad and the animals.
I knew I was going to cry. I bit my lips really, really hard. ‘You mean – I’ll be so nearly home, but in the bloody Cottage Hospital over Christmas?’
‘Yes… and don’t swear. We don’t have swearing on the ward.’
‘I know. Sorry… but it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. I want to be at home for Christmas.’
Mary pulled a face. ‘I know. So do I. But I’ve got to work and my family all live in Sunderland.’
I sighed heavily. ‘That’s rotten, but you don’t have a choice. I do.’
‘You don’t, you know,’ Mary said firmly as she whisked away the curtains round my bed. ‘You’ve had major surgery. You still need medical attention. The ambulance will be here in about ten minutes. Don’t bother to get dressed, they’ll take you in your nightie and pop you straight into a bed at the Cottage Hospital.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘And it probably will be,’ Mary said darkly, ‘if you don’t do what you’re told.’
Renza’s Diary
December 23rd 1968
It’s been a fun time for the kids who are really excited about Christmas. All throughout the month there have been pantomimes and special events laid on for them. There’ve been various entertainments in the Mess and a military dance band came to play several nights in a row. I was allowed to go a couple of times. The music was good but I hated having to dance with some of the old fogies from Dad’s office. I wrote and told Scott he’d better watch out because one of the fat policeman seemed to have a ‘thing’ for me according to one of the wives who is friends with Mum.
The Mess held a Christmas dinner for the families and some specially invited Germans – mostly the Police chief and other important people from the area. The tables were all decorated in red, gold and green and a huge Christmas tree stood in the main ballroom with lots of real lighted candles, baubles and chocolate ornaments which the kids got to take home with gingerbread men and huge heart shaped pretzels.
The kids were all on tables together and had smaller versions of what we were having. Crackers were being pulled constantly and paper hats worn and the noise from them was unbelievable but someone else had to supervise all the children for a change, leaving me to enjoy myself.
We had turkey, roast pork and lamb – such a nice change as it’s hard to get lamb in Germany – and all the trimmings and every kind of vegetable imaginable and some of the best roast spuds I’ve ever had. Every table had champagne and wine to drink and I was allowed to have whatever I wanted – and I did.
Magicians entertained the kids and Father Christmas came and handed out presents for them. They were taken in to watch a movie a bit later when the grown-ups had coffee and Christmas cake with mince pies, served in the bar. I crept into a corner out of sight of the fat policeman who’d spotted me at dinner, and tried to hide.
German men in traditional costumes – lederhosen and silly hats – started jumping around, thigh slapping, shouting, playing accordions and blowing horns, and everyone got up to dance. Zillions of miles away from a Narnia’s Children gig, I told Scott when I wrote; I bet he laughed. How the heck you’re supposed to dance to oompah oompah I’ve no idea, but by this time nearly everyone was a bit the worse for wear, including me. When he eventually found me I even let the fat policeman tread on my toes for two dances; my resistance was low.
Stella’s Diary
December 23rd 1968 – afternoon
The ambulance driver had locked the doors! He’d laughed and said he’d been warned I might try to escape! We’d bundled off from the hospital – me and half a dozen other discharged patients – round Oxford, dropping the lucky ones off at their homes. Each time one was let out of the ambulance, the driver kept a careful eye on me. Exasperated, I fleetingly glimpsed bleak, grey daylight and smelled fresh air for the first time in ages. Still in my nightie and flimsy dressing gown, I shivered. It was very, very cold.
Then it was just me left. The ambulance man laughed some more as he locked me in for the last time and we headed off through the icy gunmetal countryside, en route for Harbury Green.
We arrived all too soon.
The convalescent ward at the Cottage Hospital was tropically hot and smelled of wee and biscuits and Dettol. It was in semi-darkness and hand-made paperchains looped sadly from the ceiling. An unlit Christmas tree lurked in a shadowy corner. I could hear snores and gentle snuffles from the half a dozen beds.
More depressed than I could ever remember being, I stood at the nurses’ desk clutching my paperwork in one hand and my bag in the other.
‘Right, dearie,’ the elderly nurse whispered. ‘You’ll be over there. In the bed in the corner. We’ll be waking everyone up for afternoon tea in a minute. You pop yourself into bed and I’ll have a look at your notes.’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m not getting into bed because I’m not stopping here. Sorry.’
‘Of course you’re stopping here,’ she hissed so as not to disturb the other slumbering patients. ‘I need to check your notes from Oxford but we already know you’re here to convalesce and have 10 days of heat treatment to heal your internal surgical damage and mend your severed stomach muscles. With bed rest and everything, we’ll probably need to have you here for about a month.’
A month! I’d be stark, staring crazy within a month.
‘I want to go home. I want to discharge myself.’
‘Don’t be silly. Anyway, you can’t. You’re under 21.’
I deflated. And tried again. ‘How can I be discharged, then? Look, I’m not being awkward or anything – but I don’t live very far away, my mum will make sure I stay in bed or whatever I’m supposed to do, and I promise I’ll turn up here every day for my treatment. Is there anyone I can talk to? Someone in charge?’
The nurse bridled. She looked about as old as my Nan. ‘We don’t have doctors in situ, as you no doubt know, being a local. Everyone’s family doctor pops in each day. We have a matron. And an almoner.’
‘And could either of those discharge me?’
‘No,’ she tried smiling kindly. ‘You’re too young. I know it must seem very frustrating, being so close to home, but the Churchill said you needed to convalesce – and that’s what you’re going to do. Look, why don’t you wait for your parents to arrive. They’ve been told you’re here, I gather. You’ll feel better when you see them. Shall I make you a cup of tea?’
I nodded. I felt very tired and my legs hurt and my back ached and I thought I was probably going to cry.
Half an hour later, I was sitting in the high-backed chair beside my allocated-but-untouched bed with a cup of tea and two custard creams, when my mum and dad arrived. The nurse got to them first, and I could tell by the body language that she was explaining why I wasn’t in bed and clearly what an ungrateful little madam I was.
The rest of the ward had woken up and, wrapped in fluffy bed jackets, were watching the floor show with interest.
It took another half an hour for me to explain to Mum and Dad why I wasn’t stopping at the Cottage Hospital and persuade them to sign the discharge forms on my behalf, and a further rather frosty encounter with the almoner and the matron – both of whom looked like they’d been dragged away from something far more vital and thought I was simply beyond the pale.
With dire medical warnings ringing in my ears, strict instructions that – in the unlikely event that I hadn’t died or at least deteriorated and needed urgent hospital re-admission in the intervening days – I’d be collected by ambulance early on December 27th for my first 9 a.m. outpatients heat treatment session, and being told in no uncertain terms that any further medical emergencies caused by my stupidity would be dealt with by O
xford and not the Cottage Hospital, I stepped out into the bitterly cold December night with Mum and Dad.
Stella’s Diary
December 1968 23rd – evening
I was home at last! Bliss!
Because I still couldn’t walk upstairs very well, I was in bed in my downstairs room. It was really supposed to be the dining room, but as we always ate in the kitchen, I’d made it my den while I was studying for O levels – and now, as well as my desk, it had a lovely big and cosy studio couch which turned into a bed, masses of rugs and floor cushions, two standard lamps, my radio and record player, posters and photos all over the walls and a huge bookcase. It was where Vix – or any other visitors – slept if they stayed over.
A fire crackled in the grate, the dogs were sprawled out on the floor in front of it and the cats were snuggled into my eiderdown as Radio Luxembourg played softly.
I was home.
Mum and Dad, at first desperately worried about me insisting that I wasn’t staying at the Cottage Hospital, and frankly a bit angry with me for causing so much fuss, had doled out my medication, more or less forgiven me, made me a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of cheese and pickle sandwiches, and had tucked me up in bed like I was 10 years old. It was lovely.
Oh, but Luxembourg was being a bit cruel…
‘Son of a Preacher Man’… ‘Private Number’… ‘Everlasting Love’…
I flicked through the pages of Boyfriend and Rave – Vix had left them for me along with a note saying she’d see me on Christmas Eve – and leaned back on my pillows and daydreamed foolishly.
‘Still awake, Stella?’ Mum popped her head round the door. ‘All ok?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. I feel great. Thank you. And I’m sorry…’
‘No need,’ Mum smiled and perched on the edge of the bed, trying not to dislodge the cats. ‘I’d be the same. And to be honest, I know I can look after you as well, if not better, than those semi-retired nurses up at the Cottage. We’re just glad to have you home and getting well again. Now… there are a few more Christmas cards for you here. Are you too tired to look at them? Do you want me to save them until tomorrow?’
Only One Woman Page 23