A Wartime Nurse

by Maggie Hope

  Theda intercepted a meaningful glance between the two younger girls. There was something going on here, she could see, and it probably meant trouble. But surely Clara hadn’t – no, she was much too sensible a girl. But so many sensible girls had got caught in this war, what with soldiers only home for a day or two at a time before going back to France.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Wearmouth,’ said Violet, backing towards the door. ‘I think I’ll be getting on home now, but thanks anyway for the offer.’

  After she had gone, her quick footsteps echoing on the bricks of the yard, Clara sat up and unwound the pink scarf from her neck. Theda looked at it. The pink was discoloured in patches by an ugly sulphur-like yellow. Maybe that was the cause of Clara’s sudden illness. But a glance at her sister’s face, the tears glistening unshed and the dark shadows under her eyes, made her think otherwise.

  Bea was spooning the cake mixture into a tin lined with the paper the margarine had come in. She was working quickly now so as to get the cake out of the way, prepare a snack for Clara and begin the dinner for the menfolk. As she stooped behind the heavy iron door of the oven, Theda’s questioning eyes met her sister’s.

  Clara lifted her chin and looked back defiantly. ‘I’m all right, our Theda,’ she snapped.

  Bea closed the oven door carefully and pulled the coals in the range back from the oven flue to lower the temperature. ‘Course you are, pet. I’ll make you a sandwich now, and you’ll be as right as rain.’

  Theda said nothing but at the first opportunity went upstairs and peeped into the top drawer of the chest in the room she shared with Clara. There was a full pile of clean rags which were used for sanitary purposes every month; she herself was not due for another five days but was well aware that Clara’s courses usually preceded her own. And though she hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, she remembered that the pile was undisturbed last month too when she went for them.

  Sitting down on the bed, she drew a deep breath. It had to be that Canadian pilot or navigator or something, the one from Middleton St George airfield. Dear God, the stupid, stupid girl! After a moment she got to her feet and went downstairs. Bea was peeling potatoes on the table and looked reproachfully at her as she went into the kitchen.

  ‘I know it’s your day off, but I’m going to be well pushed to get the meal ready for six,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, Mam. I’ll do those, shall I?’

  Theda took the knife from her mother who went out to the pantry for the soused herring she had cooked earlier in the day to go with the potatoes.

  ‘Don’t say anything, please.’

  Theda had been avoiding Clara’s eyes but the hoarse whisper made her turn and gaze at her.

  ‘She’ll have to be told. Goodness knows why she hasn’t put two and two together already.’

  ‘I know, but don’t tell—’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’

  Bea had come back into the room with the baking tin containing the soused herring and put it on top of the oven to warm. But she was speaking casually, Theda saw, as she didn’t really think anything of it.

  ‘Nothing, Mam, nothing really,’ she said, and Clara cast her a grateful glance.

  There was no opportunity for Theda to talk to Clara on their own until after the meal and even then it was just a few whispered words. Matt came in and they ate the soused herrings and potatoes practically in silence. Their father was white and tired under his layer of coal dust. He ate automatically, pushing the food into his mouth and chewing and swallowing, one forkful and then another. He had washed his hands before eating but the rest of him was still black. Theda found herself watching the red mark of a new scar on the back of one hand, contrasting starkly with the white skin, and as he raised his fork to his mouth, the black of his face.

  ‘You should have had a dressing on that, Da,’ she said, and he lifted his gaze briefly from his meal and looked at her, the white of his eyes gleaming like those of the singer Hutch whom she had seen once in a short filler film at the pictures.

  ‘A touch of coal dust in the blood doesn’t hurt,’ he replied, and went on with his meal.

  Afterwards she brought in the galvanised tin bath and placed it in front of the fire and ladled in hot water from the boiler by the side of the black-leaded range. Chuck went out to meet Norma and her mother stayed in the kitchen to wash Matt’s back so she and Clara were the only ones to retire to the front room while he had his bath. But the dividing wall was thin. There was no chance of having a real heart to heart.

  ‘You’re right, I’ve fallen wrong. I don’t know what to do,’ Clara whispered frantically, the moment they were on their own. She moved as far away from the kitchen as possible and turned back to her sister. ‘Tell me what to do, Theda.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘A doctor? How could I see a doctor? How could I go to Dr Oliver? Anyroad, they say the doctors can’t tell until you’re at least four months gone, so what’s the point of going? I have to do something now!’

  ‘Missing a period doesn’t always mean you’re expecting,’ said Theda. She was casting about in her own mind for anything that might prove they were wrong, and it was a false alarm. The eloquent look she got from her sister made her dismiss that possibility.

  ‘Oh, Clara, what were you thinking of?’ she whispered sharply, taking refuge in anger and in that moment looking remarkably like her mother. She jumped visibly when the door to the kitchen opened and Bea came in. Clara whirled round and stared fixedly at the picture of Grandma and Grandda Mason which hung on the wall. She rumbled in the sleeve of her cardigan for her handkerchief and blew her nose, blinking rapidly. But her mother wasn’t watching her, she was rooting in the drawer of the chiffonier for a clean towel. Finding one, she stood at the open door for a moment before going out.

  ‘I hope you two lasses aren’t quarrelling,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d grown out of that sort of thing?’

  ‘I think I’m getting a cold,’ mumbled Clara.

  Bea sighed. ‘Aye, well, I’ll make you a hot drink and you can go to bed. I’ve got some blackcurrant jam left; I’ll put a spoonful in a cup of hot water. That’s the best thing to mend a cold.’

  When she went out the sisters fell silent. All that could be heard was the splashing of their father as he knelt by the bath and sluiced the top half of his body with clean water from the boiler, and the ticking of the wall clock which hung beside the photos of their grandparents.

  It was cold in the room. It had been Matt’s turn to give half his allotment of coal this month to Mrs Hutchinson up the road, whose husband and two sons were in the forces. Theda shivered and walked over to Clara. She put her arms around her and hugged her.

  ‘I have to go now, pet,’ she said. ‘Look, try to put it out of your mind for the minute. It’s always possible you’re just late, anyway. I’ll try to get back tomorrow but if not I’ll see you at the weekend. Howay now, pull yourself together. A good night’s sleep will help. Drink Mam’s blackcurrant and take the oven shelf to bed.’

  Clara was shivering. Theda realised with a shock how thin she was, she could feel the bones of her back through her cardigan.

  ‘All clear,’ called their mother. ‘Howay in beside the fire, it’s too cold to stay long in there.’

  ‘Leave it for now,’ Theda whispered to Clara. ‘There’s still a chance your period is just late. You’ve let yourself get right down on the bottom. Look how thin you are! Anyway, try not to worry too much. I’m sure the lad won’t let you down.’

  Though even as she said it she wondered: What did any of them know about these young lads from the other side of the world? If it was him. She was shocked at her own thought. How could she think her sister was promiscuous?

  Theda put her arm around Clara. ‘Bear up now,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t want to worry Mam if it’s only a false alarm.’

  ‘No.’ Clara shook her head.

  ‘I’ll have to be getting bac
k, you know what Home Sister is like,’ she said to Bea as the two girls went back into the kitchen. The room was filled with a rich aroma from the cake baking in the oven despite its make-shift ingredients.

  ‘Aye, standing there with a stop watch in her hand,’ said Bea. ‘She forgets about the state of the buses these days.’

  Theda laughed at the picture of Sister Brown standing at the door of the nurses’ home with a stop watch in her hand. Her mother was inclined to exaggeration if it enhanced her point.

  ‘Mam, she doesn’t,’ Theda protested.

  ‘Aye, well, she might as well do,’ her mother replied, unabashed.

  As it happened, when Theda got to the bus stop there was a queue of twenty-odd people waiting, surprising at this time of night. They were standing quietly, huddled into their coats and blowing on their hands as they looked along the road for the sight of the blue-dimmed headlights – not grumbling though. After five years of war most people had learned there was little point in complaining. When at last the bus hove into view, the whole queue shuffled forward.

  ‘Workers only,’ called the conductor, a middle-aged chap with a limp and a strained, tired expression.

  Theda gazed anxiously at the inside of the bus. It was packed with people, the seats all full and the aisle crammed with standing passengers. Some of the queue fell back and allowed the workers to go to the front, Theda amongst them. But one old man had reached the end of his tether.

  ‘What the hell?’ he whined. ‘I have to get home tonight. What do you want me to do, camp out in this cold? What happened to the last bus anyroad?’

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ said the conductor. ‘It broke down and we had to bring this one out from the garage. So this is the last bus really. And there won’t be another the night.’

  Theda moved past the old man, feeling really guilty. She managed to climb aboard the bus, just, and had to push herself tight against the front window as the door was closed. After that, she stood on the steps, holding on to the rail as the vehicle lurched around the corner, springs squealing a protest as the weight of the passengers bore down on the axles.

  She stared fixedly at the notice pasted on the window. Though the light in the bus was very dim and she could not read what it said, she knew it by heart: Is your journey really necessary? Well, she had to get back to the hospital all right but she could have stayed there in the first place. After all, she had seen her family once this week. That old man was probably on his way back from visiting his family, his daughter maybe. Oh, well, he would have to stay there tonight.

  ‘What the—’ There was a chorus of exclamations as the bus gave an extra sickening lurch and stayed leaning to one corner. If the passengers had not been packed so tightly they would have been thrown to the floor. As it was, they held each other up. Theda herself was thrown against the pole that held the handrail, catching her ribs a painful blow and taking the breath out of her. For a minute or two the world whirled around her.

  ‘Get out a minute, lass, let me past,’ the conductor was saying to her as she came to herself. He leaned over her and opened the door. Painfully she climbed down the steps. She must have banged her knee at the same time though she hadn’t felt it. She stood outside on the pavement and felt for the spot, flinching as she found it. There’ll be a right bruise tomorrow, she thought dumbly. Just when she was working the whole day too.

  The driver and conductor were looking at the bus and she looked too. No wonder it was down. One wheel was missing. It must have come off as they turned the last corner.

  ‘There it is, Jack, t’other side of t’road,’ the conductor pointed out. ‘Now what?’ He sounded like a man past being surprised by anything that might happen.

  ‘Best get everyone off, lad,’ said the driver. ‘We’ll be going nowhere tonight.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Sighing, the conductor went to the door of the bus. ‘All off now, please. Come on, hurry along. It’s shank’s pony from now on. All off, I said.’

  They were about a mile from the town, Theda reckoned, maybe a mile and a quarter from the hospital. Ah, well. Taking out her flashlight, she set off. She couldn’t afford to waste time hanging about, she would be late as it was. A long string of people followed her and there was some muttering and grumbling now. But then someone began to whistle ‘There’s a Long, Long Road a-Winding’ and others took up the tune and set off in the face of the bitter wind which had sprung up, almost on cue.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ one man was saying to himself as he strode past her. ‘I’m sick to blooming death of this flaming war.’ As are we all, agreed Theda mentally.

  By the time she reached the hospital she was about dead on her feet. She had taken the shortcut by the railway to get there, a mucky dark place at the best of times but thick with clarts in the winter. And of course she had almost fallen, slipping and jarring her injured leg as she put out a hand to stop herself and splashing mud up her arm and her stockings.

  To cap it all, it began to rain, great sleety drops which stung her face and drenched her hair through her navy blue outdoor cap. What an afternoon off! Surely nothing else could happen? With the aid of her flashlight she picked out the gate to the hospital and thankfully walked through it, her whole leg throbbing by this time.

  ‘Ah, Staff Nurse. Good evening.’

  She rubbed her hand across her eyes and blinked to clear the rain from her lashes. Major Koestler was standing there with Ken Collins, both of them looking curiously at her.

  ‘Staff Nurse Wearmouth,’ came the voice of Sister Brown from somewhere on her right. ‘Where have you been? You’re late!’

  Chapter Eleven

  It was just as well that nurses wore black stockings, thought Theda as she painted gentian violet antiseptic on to the grazes on her leg. She was fresh out of a hot bath. Thank God for the bathrooms in the home, at least she wasn’t confined to the old tin bath which they all had to use in West Row. Straightening up, she winced and put a hand to her ribs. There would be a bruise there tomorrow, she surmised.

  Sighing, she sat down in front of the dressing table and towelled her hair dry as much as she was able. She was dead tired, would just have to go to bed with it damp. Laying a fresh dry towel on her pillow, she switched off the light and climbed into bed, snuggling up under the bedclothes.

  The room was black dark, not a chink of light from the moon which, perversely, had come out after the rain. Slipping out of bed, Theda drew back the curtains at the high window before running back. There was a full moon and its light beamed in over her bed, strangely comforting. Drowsily she watched the white disc with its ring of frost, feeling her body relax in the comfort.

  How embarrassing it had been when she went through the door to find Ken Collins standing there with Major Koestler. She squirmed at the memory. And then to be dressed down by Sister Brown in front of them! What was the German doctor doing there, anyway? He was supposed to be locked up in the prisoner’s area, wasn’t he? After all he was a prisoner-of-war. She remembered the way he had looked down his nose at her, unsmiling, his pale eyes expressionless.

  ‘Are you all right, Staff Nurse? Has something happened?’

  It had been Ken who stepped forward, holding his hand out to her.

  ‘You’re late,’ Sister Brown had repeated. ‘For what reason, may I ask?’

  ‘I . . . The bus broke down, I had to walk the last mile, I fell . . .’ Theda found herself stammering like a first-year probationer. Pulling herself together, she turned to Ken. ‘I’m all right, thank you. I just grazed my leg and got a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Best go straight to bed. Don’t forget you are on duty at half-past seven in the morning,’ said Sister.

  ‘I’d better look at your leg,’ Ken began, but Theda was backing away.

  ‘No, thank you, it’s nothing. I can see to it myself.’

  She fled. As she turned the bend in the staircase she saw the German say something and the three of them laughed and looked up at her. Now don’t get paranoid
, she told herself, they could be laughing at anything.

  She lay on her side and looked up at the moon, deliberately trying to think of something else. Anything, a song. The first lines of ‘In the Mood’ ran through her head, and maddeningly ran through again and again. Poor Glenn Miller, missing over the channel, most likely dead. So near the end of the war too and he not even a combatant. ‘String of Pearls’ had replaced ‘In Tthe Mood’ now, its melody haunting. It had been Glenn’s biggest hit, Clara was always singing snatches of it. Clara . . . Don’t think about her, not tonight. Theda put sad thoughts out of her mind by concentrating on how cosy it was under the blankets and after a few moments her eyes closed and she fell deeply asleep.

  She woke with a start. She had been dreaming about Clara when they were both small girls and out on the Sunday School trip to Seaton Carew. They were paddling in the sea. Theda had her dress tucked into her knickers and was bossily telling her little sister to do the same but Clara wouldn’t and a wave came in and wet her up to her waist.

  ‘Eeh! Mam will play war. Do something, Theda,’ Clara had cried, and she had backed off up the beach and fallen down at the edge of the water, wetting herself even more. Theda put out a hand to pull her to her feet and just then there was a tremendous roaring and a motor boat came bearing down on them both and Clara screamed and Theda couldn’t manage to drag her out of the way in time. All the time the boat drew closer she was filled with a blind panic . . . and then the dream ended abruptly.

  Theda sat up in bed, shaking. The room was black dark again, the moon had gone behind the clouds and rain spattered on the window. There was a droning outside – an engine. Surely not a bomber now, not at the tail end of the war? No, of course not, it was a bomber all right but a British one. It was in trouble. The sound drew nearer and nearer, almost overhead. Good Lord, it was overhead and the engine was cutting out, spluttering and stopping, and then there was the sound of a crash . . .