Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  Harris spoke up. ‘We can’t call her Vassy, it’s undignified. But I can’t pronounce that awful Russian name either.’

  I said, ‘Let’s just call her Lily, shall we?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Squire. ‘Good thinking, love. Better to just call her Lily.’

  Moray threw up his arms. ‘Do whatever you want. I’m just the station leader, following policy. Call her Digger if you like. Or Anzac. Why listen to me?’

  We were democratic, however, and had a show of hands. Lily it was, by unanimous vote, with Moray abstaining.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At eight o’clock the following morning I arrived back at the club with the dawn, having crunched over broken glass most of the way home. I carried my dirty clothes in a string bag. Millie answered the doorbell and as I walked inside I heard someone – probably Lorna Gaskin – warming up in the practice room. As usual, she fluffed C sharp. There was a lot of noise in the dining room, but I had already breakfasted, so I climbed upstairs. On the first floor Bobbie Davis was using the bannisters as a barre.

  It was all so normal, so peaceful. It was as if I’d not spent the night before last in hell.

  ‘Morning, Bobbie,’ I said, with an attempt at cheeriness. She leaned low over her leg, and made a bowing motion at me with her arm. I took it as a welcome.

  Standing beside Bobbie, oblivious to everything around her, Pru Hort declaimed Shakespeare to a wall covered in framed theatrical posters. ‘By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever women spoke, In that same place thou has appointed me, Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.’ She stopped, and said piteously, ‘Is it “I will meet with thee”, or “will I meet with thee”? Oh, God, I can’t remember anything.’

  Pru had told me last week that ENSA were putting on a shortened version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the shelterers in Aldgate. I suspected the audience would prefer something a little less worthy – George Formby had played there last week to rapturous applause at every twang of his ukulele – but the Authorities had declared that a bit of High Culture was needed. The Dream was probably the best choice, I thought, with all its magic and fairies and dancing and outlandishness.

  ‘Morning, Pru,’ I said.

  She turned a tormented face to me. ‘What time is it? We’re on tonight, and the final rehearsal is at eleven and I can’t remember any of my lines.’

  These girls had no idea of what I had had to face in the Café de Paris, and I was glad of it.

  ‘You sound brilliant to me,’ I said.

  Ignoring her grimace, I opened the door to what once had been an elegant drawing room and was now the large, cheerful, messy common room. Whatever colour the threadbare carpet had been once, it had faded to an indeterminate pink. The walls were grey with age, but red lampshades lent everything a rosy glow. Stage magazines had been tossed on to the big gate-legged table by the window. The all-important The Stage shared space with Theatre World, Dancing Times, Theatre Arts Monthly, Film Pictorial, Picturegoer and even a few old Photoplays and Variety.

  Our multi-coloured blackout blinds had been taken down. Pam Thatcher, an artistic type, had stencilled bright designs on them so that now they were a riot of English country flowers: bluebells, forget-me-nots, foxgloves, hollyhocks, roses, fritillaries and primroses. ‘It’s silly, bluebells are never out with roses,’ Bobbie had remarked once they were up, and a few girls had uncharitably suggested that the blinds be positioned with the flowers facing the street, but I thought they added a bright cheerfulness to the common room.

  Esther Jacob was sitting at the table, unpicking a pink fluffy jumper to re-use the wool. She looked up and gave me a brilliant smile. Next to her sat Jill Peterson, reading a book.

  ‘Cheer up, Maisie,’ said Jill, looking up and giving me a grin. ‘You’ll be dead soon enough. Might as well smile.’

  So I gave her a weak smile. There was no point destroying her mood by telling her what I’d been doing.

  ‘How’s tricks, duck?’ said Esther.

  ‘What?’ I replied, laughing. ‘Wherever did you learn that?’

  Esther’s eyes became wide, and she seemed confused. ‘I heard Mrs Mears say it. Is it not correct?’

  Jill gave a trill of laughter. ‘It’s absolutely correct for a Cockney cook. Not so much for a reefained ballet dancer.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Esther. Her huge eyes had filled with tears. ‘It is so difficult to speak correctly in English. Everyone speaks it differently.’

  ‘Just copy us girls,’ said Jill, ‘and not Mrs Mears.’ She became more sombre and lowered her voice, saying to me, ‘You’ve heard about Ellie Kavanagh?’

  I shook my head, and felt a wash of fear. Last time I had seen Ellie she had been carried out of the nightclub unconscious. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She was in the Café de Paris when it was bombed. She lost an eye, and a man she was with – not Raymond, but his best friend – was crushed to death.’

  I said the right things to Jill, and quickly left the common room. Hearing about Ellie and Cameron had brought back to me the horror of the night in the Café de Paris, and my pity for the girl caused a physical ache in my chest.

  I hurried past Bobbie and Pru, up the stairs to my room. Once inside I threw the bag of washing on the floor and fell on to my bed. I buried my head in the pillow and took comfort in a good, long cry. Thoughts of Ellie, Cameron, Mr Egan, Sister Grant, Lucy, Celia Ashwin and Dr Levy and all the heroes and villains of the night in the Café de Paris trooped through my head. And Michael Harker. I wept for them all, and eventually fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  It was a good five hours later when I awoke, feeling disoriented and anxious. For a moment I thought that I’d slept through the day but I soon realised that my room was dark only because I had not removed the blackout blinds. I got up and took them down and looked out over London. A plume of smoke floated far up into the sky where a fire still burned, but that was some miles from Soho. The streets around the club were peaceful in the early afternoon haze.

  I opened the window and breathed in the cool air. It smelled of brick dust and smoke, as it had done since the Blitz began. Unbidden came a memory of the fresh sea air of the French Riviera. That brought a sigh, because I had loved the beauty of the place and ease of my life there. I had been so certain that all I wanted to do when the war ended was return to exhibition dancing there.

  Could I really return? I’d changed so much in the last year. Would the idle luxury of my life in the Riviera suit me now, after all I’d seen and experienced? But what other choices did I have? I still loved to dance and it was the only life I knew. My fear was that the war would last another ten years. No one would want to see a chorus girl of thirty.

  A rumble in my stomach made me aware that it had been some hours since I had breakfasted at the station. I looked across the rooftops and checked the St Giles clock. One o’clock. Time for lunch. After that I’d need to launder my clothes as well as the ones I’d borrowed from Ashwin. As I pulled on an old tweed skirt and a sweater I told myself not to worry about my future until the war was over. If Germany won, I might not have a future to worry about!

  After I’d finished my lunch I begged a bucket of hot water from Mrs Mears in the kitchen and took my bundle of laundry to the club’s washroom. In there was a row of square basins and two dolly tubs. A hand mangle stood in the corner. Most of the club’s laundry was done by a hefty Italian woman at a place down the street, but the girls tended to do their own laundry in a basin or in one of the two dolly tubs, using a peggy stick to agitate the clothes and a posser to pound them down.

  I washed Celia’s pyjamas and uniform, and put them through the mangle. So far, so easy. The clothes I’d worn in the Café de Paris were an entirely different prospect. I upended the bag containing them on to the concrete floor. Socks, slacks, sweater and jacket emerged in a tangle. They were so filthy with ash and dust and blood and sweat that they all needed a rinse in cold water first. Then t
hey’d go into a dolly tub along with soap and more hot water from Mrs Mears.

  As I began to sort through the clothes I felt something hard in my slacks pocket. I reached in and pulled out a gold locket. I stared at it, thinking I had never seen it before and wondering how it had got into my pocket. Then I remembered the way that the dying man, Mr Egan, had scrabbled at my clothes. Had he given it to me? I stuffed it into my skirt pocket, thinking I’d worry about it later, and I got on with my laundry.

  Once the clothes had been rinsed, soaped, agitated and pounded, and rinsed again, I put them through the mangle and took everything up four flights of stairs to the roof garden. We’d set up a washing line there. It was a sunny afternoon, though chilly, and I had hopes of a breeze later so I hung it all out to dry. My chores done I returned to my bedroom, closed the door and took out the locket.

  Had it come from Mr Egan? If so, it was a worry, because Mr Egan was somehow mixed up with Michael Harker, and after seeing him loot the man’s body I had no desire to ever see the man again. I knew I should tell the police about how he had ransacked Mr Egan’s body, but I didn’t want to do it.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the locket. Well, at least you didn’t get this, Michael Harker. I held it up examine it more closely.

  It was a pretty thing, gold, about one and a half inches square. A star had been etched into the middle and it was set with a blue stone. It was so plain that I wondered if it were actually a man’s watch fob rather than a locket. Before the Great War, when men wore pocket watches as a matter of course, they would attach an ornament – a fob – to the watch chain.

  I pushed at the catch, and it opened. A photograph of a woman with the high collar and big hair of the early years of the century had been placed inside. She smiled at me, eternally young and beautiful, although I guessed she’d have to be well into her sixties by now. Mr Egan’s mother? It might account for his determination to keep the locket safe. Perhaps he knew that Michael would search his pockets and he thought I was more honourable. Perhaps he had wanted me to return it to the right person.

  I nibbled at my lip. Should I take it to the police straight away? I doubted the local bobby would know what to do with it and it might become lost in the system rather than returned to Mr Egan’s family.

  And I really wasn’t sure if Mr Egan was the one who had slipped it into my pocket. I’d seen many injured people that night, and several had grabbed at me. Mr Egan did seem to be the most likely prospect, though. Could this little thing be what Michael was looking for? I discounted the idea at once. It wasn’t a valuable object. Not worth risking gaol for.

  Perhaps I should ask Moray what to do. I had a lot of respect for our station leader. I could speak to him about it tomorrow, when I was next on duty at the station. I’d ask him about the locket and also whether I should tell the police about Michael Harker’s behaviour. I blew out a breath, annoyed that I could not decide for myself what to do about the man. Anyway, there was no urgency. The locket would be safe enough with my sweaters. I tucked it into the drawer and pushed it down among the woollen garments.

  I glanced at my watch. Four o’clock, Teatime. Mrs Mears might be an average cook on the whole, but she excelled in making sweet things, whipping up treats even with rationing. I closed my door and headed for the stairs.

  I was almost at the dining room door when Miss King hailed me.

  ‘A man phoned for you yesterday, Maisie,’ she said. ‘A Mr Michael Harker. He said he was from the American Embassy.’

  She handed me a piece of paper, with Michael’s name clearly printed, the words ‘American Embassy’ and a telephone number.

  ‘Ready for tea?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Mears has made a lovely carrot cake. Good for our eyesight in the blackout.’

  I thanked her and took the paper. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve something to do first.’

  Miss King walked into the dining room. I walked outside, tore the note into tiny pieces and let them drift away in the wind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lily Vassilikov, nee Brennan, arrived at Bloomsbury station at seven-thirty the following morning and was given a rapturous welcome by us all. The Australian girl was around ten inches shorter than me and delicately built, with curly brown hair and a sweet face. At first sight she seemed far too frail to assist with the wounded, but Lily was one of the strongest people I had ever met, not so much physically as emotionally. She never hesitated to take on whatever was required of her. In November she had crawled into the cellar of a bombed house to rescue two trapped children.

  ‘Oh, it’s great to be back with you all,’ said Lily. ‘Berkeley had some wonderful people, but it was such a big station that I felt awfully insignificant.’

  ‘You should all be aware that Lily is so insignificant she’s been recommended for the George Medal,’ drawled Celia, who was standing in the doorway.

  Lily blushed. ‘Oh, it’s silly, really. I wish you hadn’t brought it up, Celia. My Jim’s DFC is much more impressive than any medal they give me. All I did was help a family out of a bombed building.’

  Celia smiled at her and walked into the room. It was her first day back at work since the Café de Paris bombing and her husband’s death but she greeted everyone cheerfully.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, smiling, ‘it was nothing at all. A woman, her elderly mother and two children were huddled together on the roof of a seven-storey block of flats that had been badly bombed and was on fire. All Lily did was crawl up to the top floor with the place falling down around her and get all four of them safely to the ground. And she wasn’t even on duty at the time.’

  ‘I got a terrible scolding from Jim later,’ said Lily with an abashed smile. ‘But no one else was willing to go up to them. What else could I do?’

  ‘Good on yer, love,’ said Squire. He turned to Celia and said, in a formal and stiff manner, ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’

  Her smile became fixed. ‘Thank you. Cedric and I were estranged, but it was an awful way for him to die.’ She looked at me. ‘I hear you were there.’

  I nodded. Some devil of mischief prompted my next comment. ‘I saw you, on the street afterwards. Was that Dr Levy you were with?’

  Celia wasn’t in the least discomposed. She smiled and said, ‘Yes. It was.’

  As she chatted to Lily and Squire I realised that it was the first time I’d seen Celia look uncomplicatedly happy. It seemed she was not wasting any time mourning her husband. I gave a mental shrug. Simon Levy was a lovely man, much more so than her dead fascist husband. But I thought that she and Dr Levy were an odd match. I didn’t believe in opposites attracting, or rather, I didn’t believe in an attraction like that lasting the distance.

  ‘Welcome back, Lily’, said Moray, coming into the room from his office. ‘It’s been decided that your new surname is too difficult and we’ll call you Lily.’

  She smiled. ‘Vassilikov is not so hard to pronounce once you get used to it.’

  Sadler rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll stick with Lily, thank you very much.’

  ‘It’s good to hear your Aussie accent again,’ said Purvis, giving her a grin. ‘Have you heard that there’s an RAF bomber station whose officers’ mess includes a sign saying, “English spoken, Australian understood”?’

  It was Lily’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘That’s bonzer, mate,’ she said, broadening her accent. Then she laughed. ‘At Berkeley Square station there was no discrimination against Aussies. None whatsoever. We had two Rolls-Royce saloons that had been donated to the cause, and I was given one of them to drive.’

  Squire stuck his nose in the air in comic fashion. ‘How can you bear to slum it with us?’

  Lily dimpled. ‘I’ll cope.’

  Powell entered the common room and said, ‘I just don’t understand it.’

  ‘Understand what?’ asked Squire.

  ‘The deal Mr Roosevelt made with us last week. Lend-Lease, they call it.’

  ‘It’s a bit over my head, t
oo,’ I said. ‘I think he’s trying to help us out without it looking like he’s helping us.’

  ‘We need more weapons and ships to fight the Germans,’ explained Purvis, ‘but we can’t afford them just at the moment. The American people don’t want to get involved in our European war. Roosevelt knows we’ve right on our side. So he’s arranged to lend us the stuff we need – planes, battleships, weapons, that sort of thing – and we can keep it all until we’ve put Hitler in his place.’

  ‘I know where I’d like to put Hitler,’ said Sadler, ‘but good manners prevent me from elaborating.’

  We all laughed, but just then the telephone in Moray’s office rang. The room became silent as he went into the office to answer it.

  The worst part about a job like ours was the waiting. It was difficult ever to really relax because you might be sent out at any time. In many ways, waiting at the station was worse than being on the road, because at least then you were busy and had no time to think about what you might have to do at any moment.

  After the silent beat of apprehension when Moray left to answer the telephone, we all worked hard at pretending nothing was wrong. Sadler dealt himself another hand of Patience. Harris picked up her knitting. Purvis began to sketch Lily, who poked her tongue out at him. Celia and Squire started humming a tune together in harmony, probably Gilbert and Sullivan. Armstrong tried, and failed, not to stare at Celia, who seemed to glow with happiness.

  ‘Have you heard,’ said Powell, ‘the government has requisitioned all the farms in Norfolk and told them they have to grow carrots. Only carrots. Aunt Glad’s friend, Mrs Morrison, has a daughter who’s married to a postman up in the fens. He says that all the farms he delivers to are given over to carrots now. And guess who they’re for.’

  There was silence for a beat. We all knew that Careless Talk was strictly forbidden, but Powell’s rumours were often amusing, and strangely compelling. Purvis was the first to give in.

  ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Who are they growing all those carrots for?’