The chief’s body slumped lower as the ship juddered again under the barrage of its firing guns. His face was under the water. Andrew pulled off the wrench, eased the chief’s shoulder free and pulled on the arm that had dropped. The foul air was choking him but the body was sliding towards him. He lifted Chiefie’s head clear of the oily water, gave it a hard shake, heard him cough and splutter – and then at speed dragged him the last few yards to the iron grating and the hands that were reaching down for them, pulling them to safety barely five seconds before the heavy steel door with its rubber and canvas flanges slid into place, sealing the shaft.
He lay gasping as the chief was carried to the lieutenant surgeon. And it was then that they heard it – the guns roaring overhead, followed by a shout that went round the ship’s company like greased lightning: ‘We got it! We sank the bastard! Bloody marvellous!’
An hour later, after the urgent cases had been attended to, Andrew was seen by the lieutenant surgeon, who gave him a dose of a powerful expectorant that he said would bring up anything on his lungs. They stripped him and washed him clean of the oil and bandaged his hands. Then he was dismissed and sent back to his mess without a sight of the chief.
Though it was probably a couple of hours, it seemed that no sooner had he climbed into his hammock than one of the petty officers came into the mess to order him to go at once to the master-at-arms, who would take him to the captain.
‘Aye aye, sir!’ Andrew almost fell out of his hammock. His mind raced back over events. He ran to the heads and splashed cold water on his face with reddened fingertips that protruded from his bandages. Had anything gone wrong? The chief was going to recover, wasn’t he?
He dressed as fast as he could, put on oilskins and fought his way back up to the bridge, clinging to the ropes of the storm rigging under a screaming wind with needles of ice stabbing into his face. It was pitch black. Giant seas were curling and breaking over the armour-plated decks that heaved under his boots.
The master-at-arms shouted above the storm, ‘On the wardroom flat, Leading Stoker.’ This was aft of the ship, below the quarter-deck. Andrew went back down the ladder. He discarded his oilskins and waited in line until his name was called. Flanked by the master-at-arms, he marched smartly ten paces forward, placed his cap under his arm and snapped to attention in front of the captain, his bandaged hands held rigidly down, heedless of the pain as the master-at-arms ordered, ‘Stand at ease!’
‘Stand easy.’ Captain Sir Gordon Campbell said when the master-at-arms stepped back. ‘You acted with courage and initiative in the boiler room, Leading Stoker. Your divisional officer has recommended your accelerated advance. You are being advanced immediately to acting petty officer.’
Andrew could not hold back a smile. As soon as confirmation came through he’d put aside the square rig – the bell-bottoms and round cap – to wear the fore and aft peaked cap. He’d be moved up to the petty officers’ mess at once and his midday tot of rum would be neat, not two to one with water. Relief and pride brought a flush to his face. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.
The captain, who would have been briefed on wounds, looked at Andrew’s bandaged hands and said, ‘I’ll be proud to shake your hand when the bandages are off. For the moment I salute you as a brave man.’ Andrew did not even feel the pain in his hands. He could not stop the smile that came spreading across his face as the captain smiled back and said, ‘The Royal Navy is looking for men who can make decisions. As soon as your promotion is approved you will be given the rank of upper yardman.’
Andrew smiled broadly now. He was on his way up. He was not stopping at petty officer level then. Upper yardman was the route to becoming a fully commissioned officer, moving from there to acting sub-lieutenant through sub-lieutenant to lieutenant and lieutenant-commander. Ma and Flora would be proud of him.
Sir Gordon Campbell said, ‘The officer training course in peacetime lasts six months. I believe it’s shorter now. You could be sent to Portsmouth. I’m not certain what the arrangements will be.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Andrew repeated, still unable to erase the grin. ‘I take it we are heading for port somewhere?’
Sir Gordon clasped his left hand on Andrew’s shoulder. ‘Well done, Andrew,’ he said. ‘We will be in Invergordon in about ten days’ time, barring trouble. Your orders will come through as soon as I hear from the Admiralty. Don’t bank on having more than twenty-four hours’ leave before you are sent on the course.’
Flora, wearing navy-blue overalls and with her shoulder-length red hair tied up under a turban, stood at the bench where she worked a lathe, cutting a groove in brass shell cases. It was Monday afternoon. The girls’ faces were beaded with sweat and the noise was so bad that Flora had stuffed her ears with cotton wool. She was overwhelmed with tiredness. The pain in her back got worse every day. She had made an appointment with the medical people at the end of her shift. Her stomach churned as the smell of hot metal assailed her. She looked at the clock. Four o’clock. Only another half-hour.
Over the noise of the lathes, Betty, the girl opposite, caught her attention. ‘Come on, Flora! Sing!’ she yelled, for the wireless was turned up full blast. It was said to improve production.
Despite the ear plugs Flora could hear it all, even the bad language of the men who called out ‘How about a kiss, darling?’ and worse. Some of the women, bold as brass, would make replies that could make the men blush. Still only sixteen, she had got the job by declaring herself to be eighteen, and to make herself look older wore a theatrical shade of Tangee lipstick that tasted of marigolds and made her white face even paler than normal. However, Mr Davidson couldn’t see it and the only person it offended was the widow woman next door, whose eyebrows lifted to heaven at the sight of Mr Davidson taking Flora’s arm to church or choir practice.
Betty yelled again, ‘Flora! You’ve got a good voice. Sing!’ They were all singing now to Music While You Work, and Flora smiled, pulled the cotton plug from her right ear and joined in: ‘We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line, Have you any dirty washing, Mother dear …?’ Last night in church she had sung ‘I Know that My Redeemer Liveth’. It struck her as incongruous, and now she laughed with the others when next they broke into ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run …’. It was true that music made you work faster. Four songs later, the rafters nearly lifting in the roar of voices, it was time to down tools.
Slowly she edged her way between the crowded, noisy benches to the cloakroom where, night and morning for the last few weeks, she had been sick, bringing up a gush of the brown, acid contents of her stomach. She went slowly, for if she walked too fast a hot streak of pain shot down her left leg. She scrubbed her hands and nails until every black speck was gone, but the inevitable could not be postponed, and she took a few deep breaths before awkwardly climbing the stairs to the room they called the clinic. She was the only worker there and, relieved, waited to be called; leaning against the wall of the dusty room, looking at the posters that urged her to Buy War Bonds and Dig for Victory. She was waiting to be told. But she already knew. She had missed four periods.
They called her into a little room, which smelled of carbolic, where a stout, severe nurse told her to go behind the screen, take off her clothes and lie on the thin white sheet that covered the black rubber examination couch. Shivering with nerves, she did so.
The doctor was a white-whiskered old man brought out of retirement since the young doctors were in the forces. He pulled back the curtain and came to stand over her. He looked from her medical examination request slip to her ringless finger, and said, with distaste, ‘You have missed four periods?’ His breath was foul. He handed the cards to the nurse.
‘Yes.’ Flora flinched when he put his bony, ice-cold hands on her stomach, then ran them down lower and began to press painfully above her pubic bone. She cried out and drew up her knees as pain radiated from her spine.
He took his hands away, but slowly. ‘Only four months? Are
you certain?’
Another blast of his cheesy breath made her stomach turn in protest as she replied, ‘Yes.’ What sort of girl did he think she was that she might not know when it had happened?
‘Lie on your side. Pull your knees up as far as you can,’ he ordered.
She shivered, then slowly brought her knees up, closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth while he put a rubber-gloved finger inside her and pushed hard, making her cry out. ‘You are hurting me. My back …!’
He took off the glove, dropped it into an enamel dish and said, ‘All right. Get dressed,’ and left the cubicle.
It took her some minutes to dress. She could not bend easily to reach her chilblained feet, nor could she disguise the worry lines that were etched into her white face when at last she sat opposite him.
‘Four months.’ He cast a cold eye over her. ‘There is pressure on your sciatic nerve. This will get worse until the baby is born – and I can give you nothing for it.’ He picked up her works record, then said, ‘Identity card, please!’ She put it on the desk. He peered at it closely. ‘You are only sixteen? And unmarried?’ Sticky white stuff had gathered at the tight corners of his mouth.
Her voice trembled. ‘Not officially. We are promised.’
‘You are not married.’ He was contemptuous. ‘You expect him to marry you?’
‘Yes. But he’s at sea.’ She could feel tears welling and a hard, painful lump at the back of her throat.
‘Get your father to contact his senior officer. Demand that he’s given compassionate leave.’
She was cold. And she was hungry. ‘I can’t. He’s on active service.’ Surely they wouldn’t call Andrew up in front of the Commander. His chances of promotion would be ruined. She began to cry. ‘He wouldn’t want his captain to know. I’ll wait till he’s home.’
‘Will your parents allow you to stay at home to bring shame and disgrace on the family?’
‘I’m an orphan …’ Flora took out her handkerchief and blew her nose hard.
Exasperated, he looked at the stony-faced nurse. ‘I’ve heard this story so often,’ he said. ‘This week I have seen four women who have got themselves into the same mess. Two of them with Canadian troopers – and one of them married to one of our own serving men. Why do women and silly girls behave like this?’ He turned back to Flora. ‘You’ll never see the boy again, you realise? You must give up work immediately. This is no place for a pregnant woman. Go to your doctor. See what arrangements he can make for you.’
She did not have a doctor. She couldn’t afford to pay three and six for a visit. In fact she had only been seen by a doctor twice in her life. She’d had a routine medical examination at Guthrie’s, and now this one. ‘Wh … what arrangements?’ she managed to ask, between sobs.
‘Tell her, Nurse.’ He walked out of the room.
The nurse said, slow and disapproving, as if she were a naughty child, ‘You will be sent away to a workhouse or a home for unmarried mothers, where the baby will be born. If you have any sense and any real love for your baby, you’ll have it adopted at birth. They will find it a good home. If you don’t give it up, it will go to a Dr Barnardo’s or one of the Children’s Society homes, where you will be allowed to visit by appointment. You will make a contribution to its keep. I take it you don’t have money or a home?’
She had nothing. A cold fear clutched at her heart. ‘No. But when can I get my baby back?’
‘When you have a proper home to offer to a child.’
‘Or I get married?’ Andrew would be home. He’d marry her properly. They would find a house. Even a single-end or a ‘but an’ ben’ – anything.
‘If you get married.’ She added, in a cynical voice, ‘Girls in your position have them adopted and then they keep their mouths shut. Not many men will marry a girl who’s had another man’s child.’
Flora left the clinic and went downstairs out on to the dark January street, behind a string of people who were going home. It was like playing follow-my-leader in the pitch black. She prayed with every step, ‘Please God, send Andrew home,’ until they came to where the pale moonlight reflected on the choppy waters of the Forth and she could find her way to the house on the esplanade.
In the morning, shaking with cold and fright and with the fatigue of a sleepless night dragging her down, she dressed in her warmest things - a brown woolly dress and matching brown cardigan she had knitted. Her bedroom was freezing cold. Ice had glazed and crazed the inside of her window. It did not thaw out from one day to the next. Carefully she rolled on her best lisle stockings over her numb feet, jumping at the sharp nip of the chilblains that had spread right along the side of her feet as well as to the knuckles of every toe. She fastened the tight suspender belt that cut red weals into her flesh, desperate to get downstairs where there was a small cloakroom with a lavatory and washbasin right beside the front door. Every morning for the last month she had been sick first thing, quietly because Mr Davidson had sharp ears.
She kept a torch at her bedside, for there was no light on the landing. Flashing the weak beam on to the steps, she made her way downstairs and looked for the post. There was nothing for her – no letter from Andrew. Where was he? There might be one in the midday delivery, but her heart sank as it had done every day for the last two months. She retched painfully, vomited, wiped her ashen face over with an ice-crackled face cloth and made her way down the cheerless hallway to the still dark kitchen, where she switched on the light.
The kitchen had a rank smell of damp and escaped gas that would not disappear until the room was warm and aired. Her insides were painful, caving in from need of food, but before she could eat the dry biscuit she took with hot water, she must first pull the blackout blind and open the window an inch or two. Outside, in the stone-walled yard, a freezing white mist hung over the icy black flagstones. No fresh air would breeze through the kitchen today. Putting a match to the fire in the range, she chafed her hands together as it blazed and caught while her mind jumped from one alarming thought to another. She must say nothing to Mr Davidson about leaving her job.
There was a pot of oatmeal soaking and now she struck another match and turned the gas ring on to bring the porridge to the boil, then left it to simmer while she sipped her hot water and bit into a biscuit. Shudders of fear came in waves down her back as she cut bread for toast and placed the margarine, marmalade and cups and saucers in exactly the right spots on the enamel-topped table. There was nothing for it but to see Andrew’s ma and tell her everything.
She cut more bread, opened a pot of fish paste and made sandwiches for Mr Davidson’s lunch, then arranged them on a plate and covered them with an upturned pie dish to keep them fresh.
The kitchen was warm and welcoming and smelled of hot toast by the time Mr Davidson came down and sat in his place. ‘Good morning, Flora,’ he said, ‘I trust you slept well.’ Only in the last few weeks had he stopped using the formal ‘Miss Stewart’ and had begun to use her Christian name – and that only because the woman next door had told him that Flora was not, as he’d imagined, a grown woman but an attractive young girl whose presence under his roof was causing much gossip and speculation.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ she answered, surprised that her voice sounded normal while a hundred nervous butterflies twitched at her eyelids and pulled the corners of her mouth down. ‘I’ll leave your sandwiches and a glass of milk on the desk,’ she said. ‘Would you like haggis for supper tonight, Mr Davidson?’ She would queue at the butcher’s before she got the train to North Berwick and take the haggis with her to Ingersley in her shopping bag.
‘That would suit me well,’ he said. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do today?’
‘What?’ Her lips were dry. She placed his porridge before him.
‘I am going to take a dish of tea with the lady next door.’ He chuckled as he sprinkled salt on it. ‘She says that we are going to become good neighbours and get to know one another.’ He stirred his porridge. ‘I expect that wh
en she has found out all she wants to know, she will invite the ladies of the Esplanade round and they can exchange stories.’
Mr Davidson evidently thought the neighbour was harmless. Flora licked her dry lips and shuddered. If they discovered that she was having a baby, Mr Davidson’s good name would be ruined. They would naturally think … Oh God! What would they say? She sat down heavily, jolting her back and making Mr Davidson jump.
He said, ‘Have you eaten already?’
‘Yes …’, she said. ‘It’s ten to eight. Will you leave everything until I get back? Don’t wash the dishes or anything.’ She struggled into her coat, pulled on her hat, wrapped a scarf around her neck and left the house.
At nine o’clock that same morning, at Ingersley House, Ruth was in bed, opening the letter the housemaid had placed on her morning tea tray. She slit it open and withdrew the two pages written in Gordon’s strong, sloping hand. The letter had been posted in Liverpool a week ago. Why had he not come home? Surely he would get a few days’ leave? He always used to ring Elizabeth as soon as he docked.
‘Dear Ruth …’ He wrote as if she were nothing more than an employee on the estate. Not ‘darling’ or even ‘wife’. He obviously didn’t care any more. He probably regretted marrying her.
I have received two letters from you so the mail is getting through to the ship but I can’t be sure that outgoing mail reaches its destination.
I am sorry that you are inconvenienced by the house being requisitioned for a convalescent hospital. However, they tell me that they have made a good job of moving the house furniture upstairs and that the top, nursery floor is put to good use as bedroom accommodation. You still have two upper floors and only yourself and Nanny in occupation. We must be thankful that our injured servicemen and women …
Flora's War Page 15