by Maggie Hope
In the yard, Alf cried out once as they lifted him, together with the pick, minus its handle by now, onto the stretcher, and carried him into the ambulance. After a minute or two, Cath heard it drive away and her mam and Marina’s mam came into the house. She could hear them talking downstairs in the kitchen.
‘Will he lose his foot, do you think?’ Marina’s mam was asking.
‘Bloody hell, no!’ cried Sadie, and Cath started shivering again.
‘Go to sleep like I said, pet,’ Aunty Betty said as she leaned over and tucked the worn blanket round Cath’s thin shoulders. ‘I’m going downstairs now. You’ll be all right, won’t you? A big girl like you?’ Cath nodded and hugged Annie tighter to her. Annie whimpered but did not open her eyes.
‘Keep your voices down,’ Betty snapped as she walked into the kitchen. She looked hard at Sadie. ‘You don’t want to frighten the bairns to death, do you?’
Sadie’s face looked as young and tear-stained as Cath’s. ‘What am I going to do?’ she asked. ‘Why did he do it?’
‘He didn’t do nowt!’ snapped Betty. ‘Don’t you go saying he did. The pick slipped, that was all. He was going to bring some coal in and the pick slipped off its hook on the wall. That’s what must have happened.’
‘But we had a bucket of coal in,’ wailed Sadie.
‘Aye, mebbe you did but they don’t know that, do they?’
Betty stared at Sadie’s puffy face, her red, swollen eyes. Little Cath had more brains in her little finger than this stupid cow, she thought savagely. Everybody in Eden Hope and beyond knew about her carrying on while Alf was away in the Middle East. She just couldn’t do without a man, that was her trouble. If Alf had done this to himself, and Betty wasn’t prepared to admit he had, then it was her fault. He must have heard something. Lord knows there were plenty of rumours going about the place.
‘Mind what I tell you,’ she said, ‘both of you, mind. Or, as sure as eggs is eggs, they’ll throw him in the glasshouse until hell freezes over.’
‘I won’t say nowt,’ said Etty Smith, Marina’s mother. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Are you staying, Mrs Lowe? Because if you are, I’ll cut along home, check on the bairns.’
‘Aye, I’ll stay for a bit till Jack comes in, any road.’ Her own children were almost grown and all right to be left in the house by themselves.
After Etty had gone, Betty stoked the fire and put on the kettle. ‘Likely a good strong cup of tea will do you good,’ she observed.
‘I wanted to go in with Alf but they wouldn’t let me.’ Sadie sniffed loudly, took a rag from her pocket and blew her nose.
Betty reached up to the high mantelshelf for the tea caddy and put a bare teaspoonful into the teapot. She was mindful of the fact that two ounces was all you got on the ration.
‘You can go in the morning,’ Betty said. ‘Or, I tell you what, you can telephone the hospital first thing. I’ll come along to the telephone box with you.’ She poured two cups of tea and added condensed milk. It was sweet and so saved the sugar ration. The two women drank their tea in a silence punctuated only by Sadie’s sniffs and an occasional coal hissing as tar escaped and flared. ‘Now you’d best try to get some sleep.’
‘I’ll never sleep,’ Sadie said mournfully. But she rose to her feet when Betty did and followed her to the door. ‘You’ll call for me then?’
‘Aye, eight o’clock sharp. Mind you’re ready, I haven’t got time to waste.’
‘I will be,’ Sadie promised. After she had locked the door she went upstairs to bed and fell asleep immediately; worn out, she felt. In spite of her promise, Betty had to knock her up next morning, just as she had expected to.
‘Watch the bairn, Cath,’ Sadie shouted up the stairs as they went out, Sadie with tuppence clutched in her hand for the telephone call.
Alf was in bed in the men’s surgical ward in Durham County Hospital when the Red Caps came marching smartly in unison down the ward until they got to his bed, before they split up and went one to each side of him. It was ten o’clock in the morning and two nurses were dispensing cocoa from a large enamel jug. They paused and turned to stare at Alf and the Red Caps, as did every other patient on the ward.
‘Private Raine,’ said one. His head was turned towards Alf and Alf knew he could see directly into his brain. The soldier was a sergeant and the peak of his cap came down almost covering his eyes so that, abstractedly, Alf wondered how he could see anything at all but yet he knew he could.
Alf felt sick. His foot throbbed so much he could feel the pain right through his body. The surgeon had had to remove the pickhead in the theatre while Alf was under a general anaesthetic, and now the foot was swathed in dressings and a cradle kept the bedclothes from it. In spite of all this, Alf tried to sit up to attention but the movement sent strong waves of pain through him and a groan escaped him before he could stop it. The Red Caps ignored it.
‘Cocoa, soldier?’
The nurse was standing by the bed, a mug of cocoa in her hand, her eyes bright with interest. Alf reached out a hand for the mug but put it back as the sergeant glared at him.
‘He doesn’t want any, nurse,’ he said.
‘I think he should have it, Sergeant.’ Suddenly, Sister was standing at the end of the bed. ‘Private Raine is under our care and has not recovered from surgery.’
‘He will not be under your care for long, Sister,’ said the sergeant. ‘He will be transferred to a military hospital as soon as it can be arranged.’
‘That will depend on his condition and is up to the doctors,’ snapped Sister.
‘I am still on leave,’ Alf ventured. ‘I’ve been two years in the desert.’ He glanced around the ward at the other men, mostly men injured in the pit. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he told them. ‘It was an accident, the pick fell off the wall and pinned my foot to the ground.’ The men looked away, at each other or down at the bed. Alf could tell most of them thought it was unlikely.
‘There will be an inquiry, Private,’ said the sergeant. ‘If you can prove what you say—’
‘Please leave now,’ said Sister in a no-nonsense sort of voice. ‘Nurse, call Dr Moran.’ In a movement that surprised the sergeant, she got between him and her patient and laid her hand on Alf’s brow. He felt hot and clammy and his cheeks were a peculiar sickly white, while his pulse was fast and thready.
‘But—’ said the sergeant.
‘Now,’ she grated at him.
‘We will wait in the corridor,’ he replied with dignity.
The two Red Caps marched down the ward to the entrance, where they took up a stance on either side of the door to Sister’s office.
Dr Moran walked past them with a brief nod and into the ward to Alf’s bed. He was just a young houseman but he had assisted in theatre as the pickhead was being removed from Alf’s foot, and Mr Thompson, the surgeon, had done his best to repair the damage to the small bones and tissue of the foot. It was to be encased in plaster later in the day.
‘Morning, Sister,’ he said as he came in behind the screens put around the bed by the nurse. He proceeded to examine Alf. ‘How are you feeling now, soldier?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Alf and winced as they drew back the bedclothes to look at his foot.
‘It looks quite good, Sister,’ the doctor said. ‘No sign of infection, though it is a little early for it.’
He gazed at Alf and felt his pulse. ‘What do they want?’ he asked softly.
‘To move him to a military hospital, sir,’ said Sister.
‘Oh.’
Dr Moran carried on with his examination then replaced the cradle and pulled up the bedclothes. ‘Two codeine tablets, stat,’ he said and Sister called for the nurse to fetch them.
‘Well, Sister,’ the doctor went on, ‘I don’t think he should be moved today. I will have to have a word with Mr Thompson.’ He did not miss the look of relief on Alf’s face. ‘I’m afraid you will always have trouble with that foot,’ he said to Alf. ‘You may not get back to the Front; I
’m sorry.’
As he walked down the ward he smiled slightly. The soldier wasn’t sorry, and he didn’t blame him. But there were plenty of people who would, he knew that.
Behind him, Alf closed his eyes. He had thought he just might get away with what he had done but he was under suspicion right from the start. He remembered other times when men had injured themselves on purpose, desperate to get back to Blighty. And the contempt that came from the other men, the harsh treatment they received from those in charge. Oh God, how did he ever come to this?
In the café across the road from the hospital, Sadie sat at a table with a cup of tea in front of her and a plate with a piece of teacake spread with a sliver of margarine. She stared down at it. There were three currants in the slice of teacake, or perhaps they weren’t currants, she wasn’t sure. She took a sip of the watery tea sweetened with saccharin and put the cup down hurriedly. She would never get used to the funny aftertaste, she reckoned.
Sadie looked up at the clock on the wall behind the counter and sighed heavily. A Canadian airman sitting at the table next to her caught her eye and smiled tentatively. Sadie turned her face away from him and he looked disappointed. The clock indicated it was a quarter to two. She could swear it had taken hours to go from half past to a quarter to the hour.
When she had rung the hospital early that morning they had told her she couldn’t visit Alf until two o’clock. She had caught the twelve o’clock bus from the marketplace in Auckland, though she had known she would be early, but she couldn’t wait any longer or she would have gone mad. Alf was ‘comfortable’, they had said. How could he be comfortable when he’d had a bloody great pick stuck in his foot? Sadie looked up at the clock again: it was ten to two. She got to her feet, slung her gas mask and handbag over her shoulder and went out of the café. Outside, she took great gulps of fresh air then set off across the road and up the tarmac of the hospital yard, around the building to the main door. It was closed. There was a notice pinned to it: NO VISITORS BEFORE TWO O’CLOCK. The door was locked and there was a short queue of people waiting to go in. Sadie tagged on to the end.
When she at last got inside the building she followed the signs to Men’s Surgical and went in. There was no sign of Alf. Sadie couldn’t believe it. She walked up and down between the beds staring at each face.
‘Who’re you looking for, love?’
It was a pleasant-faced older man with his arm in a sling who asked.
‘My husband, Alf Raine,’ said Sadie.
‘Eeh pet, he’s gone,’ said the man. ‘They took him away, the Red Caps, I mean.’
‘Took him away?’ Sadie stared, unbelieving. ‘Where?’
‘You’ll have to ask Sister, I reckon.’ The man lost interest as a visitor, a plump middle-aged woman, came in and went over to him, kissing him on the cheek. Sadie walked out of the ward and knocked at the door of Sister’s office. A few minutes later she was out on the street again, standing opposite the café not knowing what to do or where to go.
Catterick! He had gone to Catterick! It might as well be the moon, there was no way she could get to Catterick, not today. She was standing there, looking like a lost little girl, when the man in an air-force uniform stopped in front of her.
‘Is something the matter, lady?’ he asked. It was the same one who had been in the café; he had Canada strips on his shoulders and wings over his breast pocket.
‘Mind your own business,’ she said, but weakly. He smiled at her. ‘Come and tell me all about it,’ he said. ‘I might be able to help. We could go and sit down by the river. It’s quiet there.’
Sadie stared at him, hardly seeing him. But he was a man, and his accent was lovely and he sounded really sympathetic. She nodded slowly and held out her hand to him. He tucked it under his arm as they walked down the hill to the path by the Wear, which meandered slowly around the promontory crowned by the cathedral.
Chapter Four
Keith Armstrong was a Canadian airman who flew bomber planes over Germany. Cath knew this because he told her when he came to the house to see her mam.
‘My daddy is in the army,’ said Cath, gazing at him beneath lowered brows.
‘Is he, now,’ Keith Armstrong said. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up to Sadie, ‘Are you going to be long, honey? Only we want to catch the beginning of the film, don’t we?’
‘My daddy is a hero,’ said Cath. ‘Only he hurt his foot.’
‘Did he? At the war, was it?’ Keith Armstrong asked, as he turned back into the kitchen.
‘No, it was in the yard,’ said Cath. ‘His pick fell on his foot.’
‘Oh.’
‘It hurt really bad,’ said Cath, for Mr Armstrong had a look on his face as though he didn’t believe her.
‘Good,’ said Mr Armstrong and turned away as Sadie came down the stairs. Cath was confused, but her mother was talking to her.
‘Look after Annie, now, we won’t be long,’ she was saying.
‘Is that OK? Leaving the kids?’ asked Keith.
‘They’ll be all right. Annie is in bed and Cath is going up now. I’ll lock the door, nothing will happen,’ Sadie replied.
After they had gone Cath climbed into bed with Annie and snuggled up to her. ‘Please Jesus, help Daddy,’ she whispered. ‘Make his foot better soon and let him come home soon and the duration be over.’
Her mam had told her he couldn’t come home, not for ages. ‘He’s away for the duration,’ her mam had said. ‘Stupid beggar.’
‘He’s not a stupid beggar,’ Cath had said and got a slap for her pains.
At school, the others said nasty things about her daddy but Cath knew they weren’t true. So she just didn’t listen. He was a good man and he was a hero. What she didn’t like was when the other girls started saying her mam had a fancy man. They would make a ring round her and skip and jeer and sing it out loud, ‘A fancy man, a fancy man, your mam’s got a fancy man!’ The last time Cath had bunched up her fists and ran at the ring, bursting out and knocking Joan Prescott down as she did so. Joan had screamed and cried and Miss High had made her stand in the corner all afternoon with her face to the wall.
‘It’s not fair,’ Cath had said mutinously.
‘Remember sticks and stones,’ Miss High had replied.
All afternoon Cath had repeated to herself, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but calling cannot hurt me.’
Annie whimpered and stirred in her sleep. It was very dark in the bedroom and no light filtered up from the kitchen because, although Mam had left the gas on when she went, the penny in the meter had dropped and the gas had gone off. If Cath shut her eyes very tightly then she could pretend the light was on really, so as not to be so frightened. Mam said she was soft for being afraid of the dark.
At last Cath felt drowsy and she drifted off to sleep. But then the siren at the pit started to blow and the wailing sound filled the room. Annie woke up and started to cry and Cath hugged her for a minute.
‘Whisht, babby,’ she said, as she had done when Annie was a little baby, and Annie clung to her and cried for her mammy. Cath was crying too; it was ages since the siren went off but Cath knew it meant bombs would be coming and if one hit the house it would squash her and Annie. She climbed out of bed and pulled the pillows off and a blanket too and pushed them underneath, then did the same with Annie’s. But Annie didn’t want to go and she fought back and screamed with fear.
Still, at last Cath had them both under the bed lying on the proddy mat and with the blanket over them. The siren had gone silent and nothing was happening, and Cath thought maybe it was all right, but then she heard the aeroplane, the engine loud overhead. Cath trembled and then she felt a sudden warm wetness as Annie wet herself and Cath’s nightie as well.
The all-clear sounded, a long, continuous sort of whistle and Cath pulled Annie out from under the bed and took off her wet clothes, though Annie was whimpering with fatigue and shivering too. She put a clean nightie on her and found
an old dress to put on herself because she didn’t have a clean nightie, and they climbed back into bed. At least they were dry, Cath thought, as she cuddled her sister. They were worn out and soon they were asleep.
Neither of the children heard their mother come back into the house, giggling a little and shushing the man with her.
‘Quiet, man,’ she whispered loudly. ‘Don’t wake the bairns. Our Cath’s a proper little telltale and she’ll tell her dad first chance she gets.’
‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse,’ Keith promised, and they tiptoed up the stairs and past the open door of the children’s room to the other bedroom at the front.
‘Well, lad,’ said the sergeant. He had marched down the ward and now stood by the side of Alf’s bed looking down on him. Alf tensed and his foot throbbed right up to his hip and beyond. His wound was infected, and they had given him M and B sulphur tablets because the penicillin was reserved for the officers. He hoped desperately they would work, though; he didn’t want to lose his foot, did he? Sadie had a horror of any sort of disfigurement. He looked up at the sergeant through a haze of pain.
‘Sergeant?’
‘You’re off the hook, lad,’ said the sergeant. ‘The powers that be have decided that there is insufficient evidence to court-martial you. You can count yourself bloody lucky, that’s what I think.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Alf. ‘I wouldn’t. I was two years in the desert, wasn’t I? I’m no coward, Sergeant.’
‘Aye well, that’s all right then,’ replied the sergeant woodenly.
‘What will happen now, Sarge?’
‘Captain Rutherford will be in to see you. He’ll tell you.’
Captain Rutherford was the man appointed to look into Alf’s case. He was not Alf’s commanding officer – he and his men had already embarked for foreign fields.
He’d be going home, thought Alf. That was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d been a bloody fool, that was the truth.
‘You’ll be pleased to know you can have visitors now, Private. Your wife will be coming in.’