by Pamela Evans
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Dot nervously. ‘I can manage all right on my own.’
‘Don’t be such a doormat, Mum,’ Sheila admonished. ‘We need some ground rules around here.’ She turned to Betty. ‘Look, if you start to muck in, I’m sure we’ll all get along famously, but you’re not a visitor in this house; you’re part of the family now, so act like it.’
Enraged, Betty turned to her husband. ‘Are you going to let her speak to me like that?’
‘Go easy on her, sis,’ George said dutifully.
Sheila gave him a scathing look. ‘Come on, George, I know she’s your wife but surely you don’t want her to treat us all like slaves.’
‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Betty objected.
‘Stop quarrelling, all of you,’ said Dot, becoming tearful. ‘You know how it upsets me.’
‘Oh no,’ said Sheila. ‘Don’t start blubbing again, Mum, for Gawd’s sake.’
‘Leave Mum alone,’ admonished George instinctively, protective of his mother.
‘Oh, so you can stick up for your mother but not your wife,’ Betty complained.
George heaved a sigh. The tension in this house had been terrible since Betty had moved in, and he was still trying to get to grips with his new circumstances. He knew that, as his wife, Betty should be his first consideration, but it didn’t come naturally; he had to constantly remind himself.
‘Sheila, will you stop picking on Betty,’ he said with a sigh. ‘She is my wife, remember.’
‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this,’ declared Sheila. ‘You do what you like, Betty, but don’t expect us to like you, you lazy cow.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Come on, Mum, let’s get these dishes done pronto and leave her to rot.’
She proceeded to clear the table, the loud clatter of the crockery and cutlery indicative of the heat of her temper.
Later that night, George decided to have a quiet word with Betty in the privacy of their bedroom.
‘It might not be a bad idea for you to give a bit of a hand around the house,’ he suggested warily. ‘At least it would keep everybody happy.’
‘Oh, so you are taking their side over me,’ she scowled.
‘I’m just trying to keep the peace,’ he sighed.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Yes, I know you are, but I don’t think it means that you can’t do anything at all, does it? I don’t know much about it, but I think most women carry on as normal, at the beginning anyway.’
‘How would you like it if you felt sick all the time?’ she asked.
‘I would hate it,’ he admitted frankly. ‘But I thought it was just in the mornings. They do call it morning sickness.’
‘It’s worse in the mornings but I feel queasy all day,’ she informed him, her voice rising. ‘I don’t know if that is the normal thing but that’s how it is for me.’
‘I can see how miserable that must be for you.’ He really was at a loss to know the right thing to do. ‘Perhaps it will ease off later in the pregnancy and when you’re feeling better you can muck in with the others.’
Her face fell and he noticed suddenly how young and insecure she looked. She was very pale and her mid-brown hair was straight, lank and falling greasily around her face, making her look rather plain. The radiant glow of pregnancy he’d heard about was nowhere to be seen on Betty. For all her bolshie talk she was probably feeing just as trapped as he was.
‘Look, Bet,’ he began in a warmer tone, ‘we are a couple of kids in an unexpected situation that we aren’t ready for. Neither of us knows how best to cope with it. But we have a nipper on the way, so somehow we have to make it work. And seeing as we live here, it would make life easier for us both if you could get along with my family, because they are your family too now.’
‘Your sister is so bossy.’
‘She is a bit, but it’s just her way,’ he said. ‘She speaks her mind but at least she does it to your face. I can promise you she won’t go behind your back.’
‘The truth is, I don’t really like living here,’ she said forlornly. ‘I miss my own people.’
Reminded of her youth and immaturity he said, ‘That’s only natural, I suppose, you being a girl. But we can’t live with your folks because they’ve turned their backs on you, so we’ll have to stay here, for the time being anyway.’
‘I know,’ she said, starting to weep.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said awkwardly, handing her his handkerchief.
‘I don’t really like being pregnant either,’ she confessed.
‘It doesn’t sound like much fun, I must admit,’ he said sympathetically, ‘but at least it doesn’t last for ever.’
‘S’pose not,’ she said thickly.
‘Look, Bet, let’s give this marriage thing our best shot, for the sake of our child when it comes,’ he suggested. ‘There will have to be give and take on both sides, and I’ll try to be more supportive of you, but you’ll have to do your part too.’
‘By helping in the house you mean, I suppose,’ she said grumpily.
‘By entering into the family spirit generally and trying to get to know Mum and Sheila,’ he said. ‘Apart from anything else you will be happier if they are your friends. We don’t want our baby being born into a home full of arguments, do we?’
‘I suppose not,’ she finally agreed. ‘I will try and get along with them.’
‘Good girl,’ he said, putting an affectionate arm around her and trying to crush his longing for escape. He’d made a commitment when he’d got Betty pregnant and he couldn’t back out now.
The staff at Ashburn did their very best to give the patients a happy time at Christmas. For just one day of the year the segregation rule was waived and male and female patients were allowed to socialise at the party that was held in the canteen straight after lunch on Christmas Day.
One of the nurses brought in a wind-up gramophone and they listened to the new American swing music. The favourite song of the day was ‘The Lambeth Walk’ from the hit musical of the year, Me and My Girl. They played it over and over again. May wasn’t feeling on top form today but she joined in with the dance that accompanied the song and enjoyed it as much as she could while feeling so horribly off colour. Bad days were part and parcel of this illness. She’d learned to accept that.
‘Feeling homesick?’ asked Doug Sands, sitting beside her when she took a break. ‘It’s that time of year.’
‘Is it that obvious?’ she asked, looking at him.
‘You do seem a bit sad,’ he replied. He was looking rather flamboyant in light-coloured trousers with a brightly patterned cravat worn at his neck. ‘At least when you are not putting on a smile.’
‘I am missing family and friends,’ she confessed. ‘I was also thinking that it’s coming up to a year since I was diagnosed. It was last New Year’s Eve that I knew for certain that I was ill. I remember thinking it was the end for me.’
‘And here you are still around and ready to fight another day and many more after that,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes, there is that.’
‘I’ve been here for more than eighteen months,’ he told her, and she noticed what very nice eyes he had, a hint of green colouring the grey. Beneath his distinctive blond hair he had an angular sort of face with an aquiline nose and nicely shaped mouth. He really was rather handsome in an unusual sort of way. ‘Unfortunately there isn’t a short-term fix for this illness.’
‘Have they given you any idea when you might be going home?’ she asked.
‘No, they keep quiet about that until they are absolutely certain, apparently,’ he said. ‘But I really believe that I’m on the road to recovery. You can feel it yourself, can’t you? When you’re on the mend.’
‘I suppose that must be how it works,’ she said dismally.
‘You’re not feeling better, then?’
‘Sometimes I feel all right,’ she said. ‘But I’ve had a few off days lately.’
‘We all get those,’
he said. ‘You’ll probably be as right as rain tomorrow.’
‘We’ll miss you when you leave,’ she said, changing the subject. She didn’t want to think about her own health at the moment. ‘Thursdays just won’t be the same without our art class.’
‘I’m sure the staff will soon find another patient with a skill to pass on,’ he said.
‘With a bit of luck it will be something I can do next time,’ she said drily.
‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘You look so pretty when you smile properly.’
She narrowed her eyes at him quizzically.
Doug shook his head. ‘No, I’m not flirting with you, because I’m not a cradle-snatcher,’ he said, answering her unspoken question. ‘Just stating a fact.’
‘Thank you for the compliment,’ she said graciously.
He asked her about herself and she told him about the area where she lived and the Pavilion, about her job at the department store and her family and friends.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘You must come from in or around the London area to be in this hospital.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
He went on to tell her that he was twenty-four, had left home a few years before and lived in a houseboat moored on the Thames at Richmond.
‘That’s different, anyway,’ she said. She realised that she wasn’t really surprised because she’d always had the idea that he was out of the ordinary. ‘Very bohemian.’
‘I don’t know about that, but it suits me,’ he said. ‘I like the simple life.’
‘It doesn’t sound very simple to me,’ she said. ‘It sounds positively intriguing.’
‘It’s simple in that it’s small and cosy and close to nature,’ he explained.
‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Are you married, Doug?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve had a few near misses but I’m still single,’ he said. ‘It’s probably just as well. It would be awful if I had a wife and children relying on me. I’d be worried to death about not being able to provide for them.’
‘Yes I can see that,’ May agreed.
‘None of the patients in my ward are married,’ he told her.
‘Nor mine. Probably because they are all quite young,’ she said. ‘Romance doesn’t stand much of a chance against this illness, does it?’
‘So I’ve heard.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’
She thought about how she had lost George to Betty while she was here, but as there hadn’t actually been a romance it didn’t really count. ‘Only in a very loose kind of way.’
‘You’re young,’ he remarked, giving her a studious look. ‘You’ll have lots of other chances.’
She shrugged and changed the subject. ‘Have you painted the river at all? I know that artists usually do like to paint the Thames.’
‘You bet,’ he said. ‘In many of its different moods.’
‘Are you a full-time artist?’ she asked. ‘Or do you just do it in your spare time?’
‘I’m involved in art full time but I don’t sell enough work to earn a living painting,’ he explained.
‘So how do you make up the difference?’
‘Before I got sick I subsidised my income from sales of my pictures by teaching art at a night school, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that when I get out of here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Consumption and the classroom; not a very healthy combination, is it? They say it can be hard to get a job of any sort when you’re tainted by the TB stigma.’
‘I’ve heard a bit about that too,’ she said. ‘But you’ll be cured when you leave here. You won’t be infectious so you can’t be a threat.’
‘We know that, but employers are still wary, so they say,’ he said. ‘A chap from here that I was friendly with and who writes to me still can’t get fixed up with work, and he left here six months ago.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t depress you with reality. Not on Christmas Day.’
‘You haven’t depressed me,’ she said. ‘I’d heard similar stories from the others.’
‘I shall just have to sell more work somehow, won’t I?’ he suggested lightly.
‘That would seem to be the answer,’ she agreed. ‘But art is unknown territory to me.’
‘Anyway, I think I shall worry about that particular challenge when it arises,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just being better and back home will be enough to start with.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ she said. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Your turn will come,’ he told her.
‘I hope so.’
‘Meanwhile, let’s drink a toast to loved ones at home.’ He looked across the room, where there was a lot of hilarity as patients got together to do the Lambeth Walk. ‘And then if you feel up to it we could join the others before we are all dismissed and sent back to our own wards like school kids.’
‘Yes, this place does have the feel of school about it at times,’ she said. ‘Inevitable, given the large numbers.’
They drank a toast in lemonade, then went to join in the fun. Ostensibly May entered into the spirit of things, but her heart wasn’t in it. She felt as though she had made a new friend in Doug, and that pleased her because he was a nice bloke and excitingly different to anyone she had ever met before. But she didn’t feel well and she knew that something was very wrong.
Chapter Four
For the second time in her short life May had to face up to the possibility of an early death. The first occasion had been when she was diagnosed with tuberculosis; the second happened one bleak day in January 1938 when she was told by the doctor at Ashburn that she wasn’t improving as they had hoped, despite their having collapsed her lung for a period of time. A major operation to remove the diseased lung was recommended.
‘Me and your dad have had a long chat with the doctor about it and we really think it will be the best thing for you,’ said her mother, who had come with her husband from London to Ashburn on a special visiting arrangement to meet with the doctor and sign the consent form, because May was still underage. ‘An operation could get you properly better.’
‘Do you really think so, Mum?’
‘Yes, we do,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s your decision though, love. You don’t have to have it done if you don’t want to. No one is going to force you into it.’
‘What’s the alternative?’ asked May.
Flo and Dick exchanged glances.
‘It doesn’t seem as though I have much choice then, does it?’ she said.
‘Apparently he’s a very good surgeon,’ said Flo. She was shocked and dismayed by the idea of surgery but was trying desperately not to pass her anxiety on to her daughter.
‘The top man in his field,’ added Dick. ‘And he obviously thinks it will be worth it in your case or he wouldn’t have suggested it. They don’t do operations lightly.’
‘They don’t often do them for this illness at all,’ May pointed out with a puzzled expression. ‘Rest, fresh air and good nutritious food is the standard treatment.’
‘Apparently surgery is becoming more common these days and the surgeon who will be doing your operation is a bit of a pioneer in this field,’ Flo explained. ‘He really believes that this is the way forward for you and he has a high success rate. Until they find a definite cure for the disease, this is probably the best we can hope for. You could go on to have a normal healthy life if all goes well, though they can’t guarantee anything, of course.’
‘I’m not sure how I’ll breathe with only one lung,’ May mentioned nervously.
‘The doctor explained that to us,’ her mother told her. ‘The other, healthy lung will be strong enough to do the work of two.’
‘That’s a relief, I suppose,’ May said doubtfully. ‘It all seems a bit scary to me, though.’
‘I’m sure it must do, love,’ said the terrified Flo, struggling to put on a brave face
.
They were in the doctor’s office at Ashburn; he had left them alone for a while to discuss the proposed surgery. This was an emotional occasion for May, as it was a year since she had last seen her parents. She and her mother had both wept openly at the sight of each other; her father had seemed a little wet eyed but had managed to maintain his male dignity.
‘Still, I’m willing to give anything a try if it will get me better and back home,’ said May.
‘That’s my girl,’ approved Flo.
May looked from one parent to the other in a questioning manner. ‘I know I’m out of touch, but I’m not so far gone as to not know that it’s Saturday. So if you two are here, who’s looking after the Pavilion?’
‘George is standing in for us,’ Flo explained. ‘It’s his Saturday off. He’s got someone to help him.’
‘Betty?’
‘No. The baby is due next month so she’s taking things easy,’ said Flo.
‘Who’s helping George, then?’ asked May.
‘Percy, one of our regular elderly gents,’ replied Dick.
‘Bless him,’ she said. ‘It’s good of them both.’
‘They are a decent crowd, our regulars,’ said Flo. ‘Most of them anyway.’
May was overwhelmed with longing for home, which seemed even more distant now that she was to have surgery. The sounds and smells of the Pavilion, the playground, the house and all the people she associated with those places seemed agonisingly dear to her. She couldn’t even think about Tiddles, strutting about the place demanding food and fuss, without wanting to cry. Goodness knows how long it would take her to recover from the operation. If she recovered, she thought gloomily.
Anxiety was making her feel nauseous and her sense of vulnerability was total. She took herself in hand; if it had to be done, the sooner the better, and no fuss about it. Negative thoughts must not be allowed to creep in. The doctor had made it clear that it was her only hope, so she had to be brave and let them do what they had to.
‘Remember me to everybody at home, won’t you,’ she said, choking back the tears.
‘We certainly will,’ said Flo, sniffing into her handkerchief.
Betty always found news of May’s illness hard to take. It was far too serious and frightening for her one-dimensional approach to life, especially as she couldn’t face the fact that May might die. So she tried to change the subject whenever it arose, which it did when George got home from the Pavilion that evening, full of the latest development and very concerned indeed about May.