A Rose in No-Man's Land

by Margaret Tanner

  She watched as Harry squatted down, put his finger in the cage, and wriggled it about. Surprisingly, the canary landed on his finger and sat there while Harry made bird noises for him.

  “The bird is a good idea for your patients,” Amy remarked to the orderly. “Calming for them, I should think.”

  “It’s Harry’s bird. Seems he’s got a benefactor,” the orderly replied.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He’s taken out for fish and chips once a week, and he regularly gets boxes of chocolates, too.”

  “From his brother?” How could Jake afford this kind of thing? She hoped he hadn’t done anything rash to get the money.

  “Some captain pays for it.”

  “What captain?”

  “I don’t know, miss. According to the grapevine, he came here and fixed everything up with Matron.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No.”

  It couldn’t be Mark, surely, and yet…

  “Did you know Harry’s being repatriated to Australia next week? Someone pulled strings, apparently.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. She couldn’t believe she was hearing right.

  “I’ll leave you to it, miss.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  Harry wandered back. “You like my bird?”

  “Yes, he’s lovely. Do you know who gave him to you?”

  “My friend.”

  “Your friend? What’s his name?”

  Amy somehow knew even before the word came out.

  “Mark.”

  How on earth did he find out about Harry? Mrs. St. John must have told him some details, and he high-tailed it over here to confront Harry. Probably decided to help him out of guilt. No, that wasn’t fair. Mark had mentioned his cousin Edwina’s retarded daughter, and how he always wrote to her and sent presents from every country he visited. Friends in high places certainly described him, though. She had to rid herself of this bitterness before it poisoned her whole system and destroyed her. Mark didn’t want her. It was as simple as that. He had obviously grown bored with her and used Harry as an excuse to get rid of her. The pain of rejection sliced through her heart like the blade of a recently sharpened knife.

  Harry tugging at her hand intruded on her bitter thoughts. “I want to play checkers.”

  “All right. Have you seen Jake lately?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What! Are you sure?”

  Harry’s eyes filled with tears, and she put her arms around him. Dead. Rough and ready Jake, with his gentle hands and devotion to the wounded. Why am I not surprised? There will be no soldiers left soon.

  “Let’s start our game of checkers.” She forced herself to sound cheerful. If he broke down, she would join him, and if the tears started, she would never be able to stop them. She diverted him with the checkers, and they were soon involved in a hard-fought contest. Harry was an accomplished player, determined to win at all costs, even if it meant cheating. A couple of other patients drifted in and watched them for a time before wandering off again.

  They shared hot chocolate and freshly baked scones for afternoon tea, and she watched Harry devour the scones with relish.

  “I’m going home to see my mother soon.”

  “Yes, I heard. I’m glad.”

  She kissed his cheek before leaving. “Good luck, Harry.”

  He flung his arms around her, clutching her tightly, as if he somehow sensed this would be their final goodbye.

  On the way back to Olive’s, Amy closed her eyes, letting her mind drift. Poor Mrs. Peters, one son dead, the other so traumatized he had reverted to his childhood. The mind did strange things under stress, Dr. Heinrich said. Maybe in the peace and tranquility of home, with familiar people around him, Harry might improve. I hope so. God, please, let it be so.

  ****

  Since the end of November in 1916, the Germans had waged a relentless bombing campaign over London. How despicable, Amy thought, raining destruction from the skies on innocent men, women, and children going about their daily business.

  Surprisingly enough, the campaign of terror failed to work. People took refuge in their basements or in doorways during a raid, then stoically returned to whatever they had been doing before.

  “Those barbarians aren’t forcing me out of my house,” Olive declared one morning as Amy helped set up a few supplies in the basement. They stockpiled tins of condensed milk, a box of tea, and some other supplies. “I’m not going without my cuppa for anyone,” Olive panted, flopping down on a chair with the stuffing hanging out of it. “I don’t care if I have to rub two sticks together down here to get a fire going.”

  Amy laughed. “Back home, the aborigines used to light their fires that way. My cousin Guy knows how to do it.”

  “Really?” Olive chortled. “I’m joking.”

  “I know. A couple of mattresses, blankets… What else do we need down here?”

  “Candles. Charlie’s got a little kerosene stove I can borrow,” Olive said. “He won’t need it. Booze is all he’ll be worrying about. I bet he’s got a pile stashed away for emergencies.”

  “Probably has. Everything else seems in short supply,” Amy mused. “No reason to think beer would be any different. What are you going to do about the Dawsons?”

  “I can’t let them down here.” Tremors shook Olive’s large frame. “They’re filthy and full of lice. I have to think of my lodgers and the customers.”

  “Of course. I’d like to be able to bath those poor little mites,” Amy said, “and put some decent clothes on them.”

  “I would too, but look what happened to those outfits you made out of that old blanket. Those kids only wore them for a couple of days before they were filthy.”

  “I know, but at least they were warmer than their other threadbare rags.” If only she had some spare money, she could do a lot more for them.

  ****

  On such a bitterly cold day, the sleeting rain added to the damp despair of the slum dwellers. They hadn’t been able to visit the Dawsons since last week because of the terrible weather. With very few leftovers, Olive and Amy boiled all the vegetable peelings, bones, and scraps of meat they could find and made it into a thin stew. To give the gruel a bit of flavor, they spiced it up with a few herbs.

  “It’s the best I can do. We’ll give them these flour sacks, too, to help the poor buggers keep a bit warmer.”

  In the smelly squalor of their derelict room, the Dawsons huddled together for warmth. All the children had hacking coughs, while Molly’s eyes were blackened and swollen half closed. She sported a nasty gash on her cheek and a thick lip.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Olive asked.

  “Joe belted me up. I went down to the pub to get some money. We ain’t eaten for two days.”

  Amy watched with a feeling of revulsion as the children fell on the pot, scooping the stew out with their fingers and wolfing it down like little wild animals.

  “For God’s sake, haven’t you got a plate?”

  “I sold everything. You haven’t been near us for days,” Molly accused, also scooping up the food.

  “We couldn’t get out because of the bad weather,” Amy apologized. “Where’s the baby?”

  “Dead.”

  Amy gasped in shock. The poor little mite. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Plenty more where she came from,” Molly complained bitterly. “That’s the trouble, ain’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Amy agreed. If only these women could somehow stop having so many babies, they would not be in such dire straits.

  “Keep away from men,” Olive said tartly.

  “When Joe comes, there ain’t no stopping him. He just takes what he wants.”

  “Yeah, but what about the other men?” Olive accused.

  “We have to eat,” Molly snapped.

  “For the few bloody pennies you get, you’d be better off without them.”

  The hacking coughs, the runny noses, an
d matter-filled eyes of the children always broke Amy’s heart, but today she felt nausea rise up in her throat.

  “I don’t feel well.” She dashed into an adjoining and even more derelict room.

  Amongst the bricks and other rubble, with rain pouring through the gaping hole in the ceiling, she vomited her heart out.

  “You all right?” Olive called out.

  “Yes, I don’t know what came over me. Don’t come in here. You’ll break your neck.”

  One of the children followed her. Essie, a skinny little girl who could not be more than eight or nine, tugged at her skirt.

  “Are you sick? Are you going to die like Baby did?”

  “No, darling, I’m not going to die.”

  The child gazed at her with sad, world-weary eyes, and Amy felt an overwhelming desire to hug this pathetic little thing but, remembering Olive’s warning, restrained herself.

  “I’m starting work tomorrow,” Essie announced. “Ma got me a job at O’Toole’s laundry.”

  “You’re too young. The work will be too heavy for you.”

  “I’m getting five shillings a week.”

  They were back in the front room now, where the fire was lit, thanks to the bucket of coal they had brought over with them.

  “Essie says she’s got a job,” Amy said.

  “Where?” Olive spat at Molly. “Doing bloody what?”

  “Molly got her a job at O’Toole’s laundry.”

  “You bitch,” Olive verbally attacked the other woman.

  “Olive, please,” Amy protested. “She is rather young, but…”

  “O’Toole’s laundry is a front for a brothel.”

  Amy’s blood ran cold and her stomach churned over with revulsion.

  “How the hell could you do such a thing? What kind of mother are you?” Olive raged at Molly.

  “We need the money. About time she earned her keep. I did it at her age.”

  “There must be something else. Please, you can’t let her do it,” Amy pleaded. “Get her a job in a factory. Anything but that.”

  “She has to start. I got some wages in advance for food. O’Toole will kill all of us if she don’t turn up.”

  “Tell him you’ll go to the police and have him arrested for child prostitution. It’s a disgrace. In fact, I’ll go myself and see him,” Amy promised recklessly.

  “O’Toole’s an animal. He’d carve you up quick as look at you. Carries a twelve-inch blade with him all the time,” Olive warned. “The people working for him are just as bad. Dregs of the East End, they are.”

  “You would be better off in the workhouse. Wouldn’t they, Olive?”

  “I ain’t going there.”

  “You’d rather sell your daughter to be violated by some brute?” She could not believe a mother, no matter how desperate, could do such a wicked thing.

  “It’s all right for you, Miss Hoity-Toity, but I got all these brats to feed.”

  “I’d sell myself before I sold my children.”

  “I tried, but he didn’t want me, only Essie. Joe came over and took the money, too.”

  “For God’s sake,” Olive exploded. “You know what O’Toole’s like.”

  “Piss off,” Molly screamed at them. “Piss off and leave us alone.”

  The children started wailing, so they left, picking their way over the broken floorboards and chunks of fallen masonry. What else could they do?

  “It’s a disgrace. We have to do something. I’ll go to the police,” Amy said as they stepped out into the cold bleakness of the street. It was heaven compared to the Dawsons’ squalor and despair.

  “Bloody rozzers won’t do anything. All the decent ones are in the army.”

  “The poor little girl. I bet she’s got no idea what she’s letting herself in for.”

  “Wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” Olive sniffed her distaste. “Watched her mother doing it plenty of times. Slum kids grow up quick.”

  The thought of what poor little Essie was destined to endure caused Amy to be sick again.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I shouldn’t have eaten that second piece of pork pie last night.”

  “You sure that’s all it is?” Olive gave her a speculative look.

  “Yes, I’m certain it is.” Amy turned away and entered the café.

  Chapter 15

  Early the next morning, the bombs rained down on the East End. The noise was terrible, worse than the artillery barrages on the Somme. Through the window, Amy watched flames leaping up into the sky.

  Sirens went off in every direction. The fire brigade raced past, followed by the police. Gunfire could be heard in the distance as the army tried to shoot the planes out of the sky.

  The scene around them was of chaos, with screaming, shouting people dashing everywhere. Clouds of acrid smoke made it hard to breathe. Someone tried to organize a bucket brigade to put water on the bakery across the road. It had taken a direct hit, and soon the ovens exploded in a giant red fireball. The volunteers turned their attention to stopping the flames from spreading to the shops next door. The fire brigade worked desperately on a tenement just at the back of the café. Absolute pandemonium reigned as hysterical people rushed around searching for loved ones.

  The police erected makeshift barricades to keep people out of the way as rescuers combed the rubble for survivors. Ambulances arrived but, as always, there were too few medical personnel, too many casualties.

  “I’ll have to go out and help,” Amy told Olive.

  “Yes, yes, and I’ll put the kettle on for tea. I warrant some of those rescue workers will want a cuppa.”

  Amy dashed into the street. A fireman hurried toward her carrying a child with a bleeding head wound.

  “Put her down here,” Amy instructed. “I’ll dress it. Not too serious, just a flesh wound, I’d say.”

  She ripped a strip from her petticoat. “Shh, darling, you’ll be all right. Just lie still.”

  The rain stopped, but arctic winds gusted along the streets.

  Dozens of survivors were rescued from the rubble. A critically injured man was dragged out. A fireman tried frantically to resuscitate him.

  “Cover him with a blanket and leave him,” Amy ordered.

  “But…”

  “Leave him, leave him,” she screamed, grabbing the fireman by the arm. “He can’t survive. Work on some of these others who can be saved.”

  She was applying a splint to a woman’s leg, using a piece of wood, when an elderly man came up to her.

  “Nice work. I’m Dr. Thompson.”

  “Amy Smithfield.”

  “You’ve done this before,” he observed.

  “Yes. I don’t think this patient can wait, Doctor. She’s hemorrhaging badly. I’ve put a tourniquet on her leg and splinted her arm.”

  “Good girl. We’ll get her in the ambulance straight away.”

  The doctor and Amy worked together preparing to do an emergency amputation on a patient whose arm was wedged under a massive pillar. He could not wait for the heavy-lifting equipment to be brought in to haul the rubble away.

  “Get these people out of the way,” Dr. Thompson ordered a hovering policeman. “If they can’t help, get rid of them.”

  The doctor gave the patient a morphine injection while Amy handed him his instruments. “Not ideal conditions,” he said. “I operated in much worse in South Africa. Wouldn’t let me go to this one, said I was too old. Absolute poppycock. He’ll do. Get him into an ambulance. What about you?”

  “Gallipoli and France. I’m an army nurse.”

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  They worked together for hours. Amy almost swayed with fatigue now.

  “You’ve done well, young lady,” the doctor said.

  A woman awaiting evacuation to the hospital screamed, and her husband rushed over to them.

  “My wife’s ready to give birth.”

  He wa
s one of Amy’s earlier patients. He wore a bandage around his head and carried his arm in a sling.

  The woman, now writhing in agony, started yelling. She was bleeding, and the doctor muttered a swear word as he knelt down to examine her. “She’s dilated, ready to deliver right now, I’d say.”

  “Midwifery isn’t my forte,” Amy confessed, shooing the woman’s children away.

  “How many will this make?” Dr. Thompson asked her husband.

  “Eight.”

  The doctor rolled his eyes, while Amy gave a weary smile.

  “Tired, my dear?” he asked kindly. “You’ve done a sterling job. We’ve nearly finished.”

  The baby came fast, a boy, healthy, if a little undersized, but he cried lustily. Amy wrapped the infant up in a sheet and handed him to his mother.

  “A fine boy you’ve got,” she said.

  “Thank you.” The mother kissed his little wrinkled face. “You are a bonny one.”

  The grinning husband thanked them profusely. “I wanted another boy,” he declared cheerfully.

  At least this little mite was wanted. Amy thought of Molly Dawson with her desperate brood.

  A young reporter hurried up to them. “I’m from the Daily Mail. You are?”

  “Get away, we’re too busy.” Dr. Thompson brushed him aside.

  “Who are you, miss? Everyone said you did a good job helping the injured.”

  “She’s an Australian army nurse,” the doctor snapped. “Now get out of the way, or I’ll call the police over.”

  Amy found it difficult to move because her legs felt so stiff and heavy by the time they had finished.

  “I’ll walk back to the café with you. Heard Olive’s got the kettle on,” the doctor said, snapping his bag shut as the last ambulance trundled off.

  “I can’t understand why I’m so tired, Doctor.” She stumbled, and he grabbed hold of her arm.

  “We’ve been working eight hours flat out.”

  “On the Gallipoli run, we did fifteen-hour shifts without a break, for days on end, in sweltering heat. France was nearly as bad, only they were more organized there.”

  “Tell me, what are you doing back here, Sister?”

  They sat at a table in the café with Olive serving tea and sandwiches.

  “Where will I get my bloomin’ bread from, now the bakery’s gone?” Olive complained.