Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  As he helped me to a chair I finally had a chance to look at him properly. Brown hair curled against the brim of his hat and his eyes were a pale icy blue. I thought he was probably in his late twenties, and also that he must have a few bob in the bank because his suit was hand-made, if I was any judge. He looked shrewd and intelligent, and attractive enough, but it seemed to me that his face was too sharp-featured to be considered really handsome – honestly, you could open an envelope with those cheekbones! Nice hands, though.

  He ordered a pot of tea from the sleepy-eyed waitress, who delivered it in a brown pot and gave him a lovely smile along with it. No smile for me. As I poured, he pulled a slim flask out of his breast pocket and held it up enquiringly. I shook my head and took a sip of my tea, which was strong and reviving.

  He tipped a jigger of whisky into his own cup. ‘For my shock. And it’s the only way this stuff’s drinkable. I can’t understand how you English quaff it like you do.’

  I felt annoyed on behalf of all Britons. ‘When in doubt, brew up’ was getting us through this war. I couldn’t survive without my tea, preferably well mashed (as we’d say in Sheffield). In other words, I preferred a very strong cup indeed. There was no point in showing my annoyance to the man. So I smiled and took another sip.

  I smile a lot. Maybe I smile too much, but I got it from my mother. ‘Smile,’ she’d say. ‘If it’s bad, just smile. It’ll soon be better if you don’t dwell on it.’ Mam died when I was sixteen, and I miss her every single day.

  The American lifted his cup and saluted me. ‘Here’s looking at you, Miss …?’

  ‘Halliday. Maisie Halliday. Thanks again for being such a good sport about this.’

  ‘Michael Harker. And it’s me who should be thanking you for being so forgiving.’

  He smiled. He had a rather devastating smile. I looked down at my tea and wondered why Americans all seemed to have such good teeth. It was most unfair, really. Embarrassed, I said the first thing that came into my mind.

  ‘We have the same initials. M. H.’ I realised immediately what a stupid remark it was, and could only hope he’d put it down to shock.

  He smiled again, but this time I was expecting it, and it didn’t affect me in the slightest. ‘What else do we have in common, do you suppose, Miss Halliday?’ he said.

  Now he was flirting, which annoyed me, so I replied, quite coolly, ‘Nothing, I expect.’ Unless you drive ambulances and used to dance in a chorus line. ‘You’re American, aren’t you? Or Canadian?’

  ‘I’m all American, Miss Halliday. Born in western Pennsylvania.’

  Why did Americans always tell you what state they hailed from? Those I’d met on the French Riviera had been the same, telling me they were from Texas, or from Boston, or New York, as if it would matter to me. I’d never heard of Pennsylvania, let alone its west.

  I nodded, as if I knew all about Pennsylvania, north, west, south and east. ‘What brings you to wartime Britain?’ I asked.

  ‘This and that. I’ve been here a year now.’

  ‘Through the Blitz?’

  ‘Through it all.’

  My grazed right hand and knee were throbbing painfully, although I was pleased that the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Both grazes needed washing and some iodine, and I needed to rest. I frowned down at my scraped knee, and at the torn and blood-stained rip in my trousers. The wounds were minor and would heal, but I only had two pairs of trousers to wear to work. Now, what had been the better pair would have a large darn right across the knee. More annoyingly, I couldn’t afford to pay anyone to darn it for me. That meant I’d have to sew it up myself, and I was not a good seamstress.

  ‘I really think that someone should look at your wounds,’ he said, watching me. ‘Will you let me take you to a doctor?’

  ‘My wounds?’ I laughed. ‘A grazed knee and hand? Mr Harker, I’m an ambulance driver.’ I pointed to my badge. ‘I can take care of my very minor wounds once I get to my room.’

  ‘An ambulance driver? Little thing like you? No wonder you’re so calm about it all. How long have you been doing that? Have you been driving in the Blitz?’

  He had to be flirting. No one in their right mind could call me little. I’m almost six feet tall.

  ‘I joined the service in December thirty-nine. Yes, I’ve driven throughout this Blitz.’ I finished my tea, and stood up, trying not to wince at the pain in my knee. ‘And I really should get home or they’ll worry. I apologise again for dashing out on to the road like that.’

  ‘It’s clear that you’re a girl who can take care of herself,’ he said, standing also and throwing some money on the table, ‘but please, let me see you home safely and explain to your parents what happened.’

  ‘It’s just around the corner. And it’s a boarding house.’

  ‘Please, Miss Halliday,’ he said, with another disarming smile. ‘I knocked you down after all.’

  ‘You didn’t knock me down, I fell. It was my fault entirely. And I’m perfectly able to see myself home.’

  I wondered why this man was making me behave so rudely, why I found him so disconcerting. Something was wrong about him, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Perhaps it was the half-smile that always seemed to hover over his mouth, by turns making him seem knowing, shy, rueful and ironic. Perhaps it was the annoyingly devastating full smile.

  Or was it that he was American? The rich Americans on the Riviera had been like this, all chummy and egalitarian, until you realised that deep down they were just as class conscious as anyone else. As an exhibition dancer, a former chorus girl, I was never of the right class to be treated with real respect.

  ‘Miss Halliday, my mother would tan my hide if she knew I had injured a girl and not made sure she got home safely.’ This time his smile was rather calculated. ‘I warn you, if you stride off on your own I’ll follow you anyway.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be striding.’

  ‘All the more reason to let me drive you home. Please.’

  I huffed out a breath. ‘I’m just around the corner, not more than a hundred yards away. Driving me would be ridiculous.’

  ‘Please, Miss Halliday, allow me to walk you safely home.’

  He held out his arm in a mock courtly gesture. Mr Harker was clearly the sort of man who was used to getting his way. Accepting the inevitable, I put my hand on his arm.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We walked the little distance along Charing Cross Road towards Manette Street in the pre-dawn gloom. Foyles big bookstore still dominated the corner, although the long rows of bookshelves out the front had gone and the plate glass windows were covered with plyboard. A few small squares had been cut in them so customers could view the latest releases. In front of the shop, on Charing Cross Road, was the huge bomb crater from a raid in October. It hadn’t been filled in, but a temporary bridge of metal plates had been laid across it.

  ‘That’s a big ’un,’ he said, pointing at the crater. Michael Harker seemed to be in a very good mood, which I put down to knowing that I was only slightly injured and to my capitulation on the question of seeing me home.

  ‘Everyone calls that Foyles Bridge now,’ I said. ‘Because of the bookshop.’ A London bus bumped its way across as we watched, making the metal plates rumble and clatter.

  Mr Harker nodded at Foyles as we turned into Manette Street.

  ‘Do you like to read, Miss Halliday?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Reading was all that kept me sane as a boy.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘It’s a swell shop, Foyles. I’ll have to visit it again soon.’

  I said with a smile, ‘They say that when Hitler was burning all those books in Berlin before the war, Foyles’s owners wrote to him and asked him to sell the books to them instead.’

  He laughed. ‘I assume he didn’t take advantage of the offer?’

  ‘I don’t think he gave them the courtesy of a reply.’

  ‘Dashed bad manners,’ he said, in a stage English accent.


  I rolled my eyes. ‘Apparently Foyles has stacked copies of Hitler’s Mein Kampf in the roof instead of sandbags as protection against air raids. It’s mad, of course, because the roof will go up like blazes if an incendiary gets in.’

  ‘Sounds like a beat-up to me,’ he said. ‘Good publicity, though.’

  ‘What a cynical American you are.’ I smiled.

  ‘Damn straight.’ He smiled, too.

  Dawn was close and a few ragged clouds drifted lazily above us. As the day lightened into a sky of clear, washed blue, Manette Street was revealed in all its shabby glory. We walked slowly, me leaning on his arm and limping slightly. The throbbing in my knee was worse, and all I wanted was to be in my room, although the thought of mounting three flights of stairs was a daunting one.

  ‘This is a cute street,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Manette Street. I’m told it’s named after a character in one of Charles Dickens’s novels.’

  He smiled. ‘Sure it is. Dr Manette in A Tale of Two Cities. Never thought I’d see the street he lived in.’ He looked around. ‘I wonder which house was his?’

  ‘You do know he’s a fictional character?’

  ‘Dickens must have had a place in mind.’ He shrugged, but I could see he was looking around with real interest. For a moment I saw the boy who had so loved to read.

  We passed under the archway next to the Pillars of Hercules pub.

  ‘Now that’s a cute name for a pub,’ he said. ‘Old?’

  ‘I suppose so. A couple of hundred years at least, probably. Most of the buildings around here are a few hundred years old.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure the Pillars of Hercules is mentioned in A Tale of Two Cities. Have you read the book?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. It’s worth reading. All of Dickens is.’

  Greek Street was its usual jumble of people and colour and noise, even so early in the morning. The colour came from the government posters that had been plastered on every available space: ‘Dig for Victory’, ‘Beat Firebomb Fritz – Join the Fire Guard’, ‘Be like Dad, keep Mum – Careless Talk Costs Lives’. The scent of damp rot and bad drains provided an added piquancy to the scene.

  ‘It’s a funny place, Soho,’ he said. ‘Cosmopolitan. Reminds me a bit of New York.’

  ‘I like it,’ I said, looking around. Soho had many faces, from the sordid dance clubs, to the beautiful if tattered old buildings to the lush grass in Soho Square gardens. ‘I lived here with my mother after we came up to London from Yorkshire, when I was twelve. It’s a tolerant place. All sorts of people all get along here and I like that.’

  ‘Isn’t Yorkshire in the north?’

  I nodded. ‘Reyt oop north,’ I said, in stage Yorkshire.

  ‘So why do you come up to London from the north?’

  ‘Because London’s the centre of the world, don’t you know,’ I said with another smile. ‘Centre of Britain, anyway. It’s always up to London, whether you’re coming from north, south, east or west Pennsylvania.’

  He touched his forehead in a salute to acknowledge the hit.

  My smile faded. ‘It’s why Hitler wants to obliterate the city.’

  Directly across the road was the Theatre Girls’ Club. My home. I waved towards the flat portico of the club, with its columns and curlicues.

  ‘We’re here,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the use of your arm, I’ll leave you now.’

  He was staring at the club, frowning. ‘That’s where you live?’

  The long, rather austere building looked shabby, unkempt and uncared for. Like many of the old buildings in Greek Street, it had obviously once been rather grand, but no longer. Shrapnel and bombs had gouged out large chunks of the facade. The plaster, streaked with ash and dust, was in dire need of painting, and several windows that had shattered in a raid were covered by plyboard. Bars were set across the ground floor windows, which gave it rather a forbidding air.

  ‘It’s better inside than out,’ I said.

  ‘It’d have to be.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I said, annoyed. ‘It’s a famous London institution and, as I said, it’s much nicer inside.’

  ‘What’s it called, this famous institution?’ The teasing tone in his voice put my back up.

  ‘The Theatre Girls’ Club. It was set up in the twenties to help theatre girls survive among their own kind.’

  ‘You’re a theatre girl? I thought you were an ambulance driver.’

  ‘In peacetime I’m a dancer,’ I said.

  ‘Ballet?’

  We were a similar height, so I gazed straight into those icy blue eyes and smiled. ‘Have you ever seen a ballet dancer who’s five eleven? Before the war I was a chorus dancer. In Paris, mainly. The Folies Bergère. I was a Tiller Girl,’ I added hastily, ‘not a showgirl.’

  I hoped he knew that the Tiller Girls had a reputation for prudishness and, unlike the showgirls, we never danced topless.

  ‘Aren’t you full of surprises. I’ve never met a chorus girl before.’

  ‘Well, it’s your lucky day then.’

  ‘I’d not have picked you for one.’

  ‘Oh, we look just like normal girls, only usually we’re taller.’

  ‘Just how old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen. Nearly twenty.’

  A crease appeared between his eyebrows. ‘And you were dancing in France before the war?’

  ‘Yes. I went there when I was sixteen.’

  He began to say something, thought better of it, and gestured towards the club. ‘Why are the windows barred? To keep men out or young theatre girls in?’

  ‘Apparently they were put in last century, well before the club was even thought of.’ My voice was huffy. I moderated my tone and smiled. ‘Thank you again for seeing me home.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  A rather odd expression flickered over his face, almost wistful. Then he grinned. ‘Absolutely nothing. It’s been nice meeting you, Maisie Halliday. I couldn’t have knocked down a better girl.’

  ‘You didn’t—’

  ‘And I sure hope I get to see you high-stepping in the chorus one day.’

  With that he turned and walked away.

  Later that day a parcel arrived from Foyles bookstore. A beautiful leather-bound edition of A Tale of Two Cities. On the fly leaf he’d inscribed, ‘To the nicest chorus girl I’ve ever knocked over.’ A card was tucked inside, with his name, Z. Michael Harker, and an address in Washington DC. No London address or telephone number. I wondered what the Z stood for, and looked at the card for a moment or two. Then I tore it up. It was no use to me. Mr Harker lived in America, and I was unlikely ever to see him again.

  I went to the window. London was spread out before me, hazy and serene in the late afternoon light. The serenity would be fleeting; I knew that the night would bring ruin and devastation. Again my thoughts turned to Michael Harker, who had not thought I looked like a chorus girl, and whom I had found so annoying, although he’d done nothing but behave like a gentleman towards me.

  It was then I realised why I was annoyed, and I laughed at myself. I expected men to behave in a certain way around me and he had not done so. Michael Harker had not flirted with me, not really. He had sent me a book, not flowers. He hadn’t written the usual things on his card, begging me to see him again, telling me how lovely I was, suggesting dinner, as the men had done when I was dancing in Paris. If he had, I wouldn’t have taken up his invitation – I never accepted those sort of invitations from chance-met admirers – but he had not behaved in the way I expected. If anything, Michael Harker had treated me like a younger sister, and it rankled.

  I thought about it. He’d seen me in my ambulance outfit, which was filthy after a long shift, and did not make the most of my attributes. My face was pretty enough, nothing to write home about, but my ‘vital statistics’ were 36-22-35 and men usually took notice of them.

  I stayed up late reading A Ta
le of Two Cities. I loved it. Which, perversely, made me all the more annoyed with Michael Harker.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was chilly with low clouds and some fog when I set out to walk to the ambulance station the following morning. Dark, too, so I had to watch where I put my feet on the cracked pavements. I moved a little gingerly, still slightly the worse for wear, but certainly not hors de combat. After six months of seeing how badly wounded a human being can be and still ‘carry on’, now I just carried on no matter how badly I felt.

  I found myself thinking again about Michael Harker as I walked down Manette Street with only the light of my masked torch for company and I smiled to remember his boyish excitement at wondering which house was Dr Manette’s. It was silly to think of him, I told myself, because I was unlikely ever to meet the man again. But how could I not think about an attractive man who had knocked me down and then sent me a book? Mr Z. Michael Harker was out of the ordinary, and that meant he was interesting. And not a man for me, I told myself firmly.

  It was a good mile from Soho to the Bloomsbury Ambulance Station, and I walked the route six times a week. We’d moved to alternate twenty-four-hour shifts in the New Year so that under the present roster I worked from seven-thirty each Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday morning until the same time the following day, with Saturdays off. That meant I had a very welcome weekend break from Friday morning until Sunday morning.

  My route took me along Charing Cross Road (which I crossed with extra care), to Bedford Square, where the garden looked oddly naked without its railings. The massive shape of the British Museum soon loomed up on my right. So far the museum, with its treasures of objects and books, had escaped serious damage. The darkness that was Russell Square garden, also minus railings, soon took shape ahead of me. I marched around it to Woburn Place and down into the ambulance station.

  Like most London County Council auxiliary ambulance stations in London, the Bloomsbury Auxiliary Ambulance Station (Station 11) was located in a garage. Ours was in the basement of a large block of flats, called Woburn Place. I’d been told that, before the war, the serviced apartments had housed mainly single young men who took advantage of the maid service and restaurant. Now, like so many other large buildings, the flats had been taken over by the government to house servicemen in London. We’d see the young men coming and going. They seemed to be mostly Polish, with some Czechs and Free French thrown in.