by Vicki Delany
From Ralph she had heard nothing in months, but that was so like Ralph that Moira didn’t give it much thought. Rose wrote to her regularly, full of the excitement of her job at a factory in London and all the friends she had made there. She alluded to meeting Charlie Stoughton several times but Moira only half-paid attention, enviously wishing that she and Grant were able to organize more time together.
Their convoy moved out to the open sea, like a much needed holiday trip. During the day the exhausted nurses relaxed on the deck in the welcome sunshine. The sun was getting warmer every day. But as night enveloped the open sea all sense of a pleasure cruise ended. No one was allowed on deck after sundown, the women ordered to sleep in full battledress with their kit at hand. Portholes were closed tight, but they could still hear the distant sounds of guns and exploding depth charges.
“Do you think it can get any hotter, Moira?” Jean asked, wiping her brow with a dusty handkerchief. The women were standing at the single cold-water tap that served the entire complement of Nursing Sisters at the sprawling tent hospital in the Algerian desert.
“Reverend McDonald would say it can get a great deal hotter,” Moira replied.
“Oh, pooh. Like he knows. I always thought I would love the Mediterranean. I don’t.”
Susan Kilpatrick laughed as she unbuttoned the top button on her white nurses’ uniform to splash cold water down the front of her chest. After three years at war, the nurse from a Saskatchewan wheat farm was plump no longer.
“Nice color, Sue,” Jean said. “We could try marketing that, when we get back home. Make our fortunes.”
Like her fellow sisters, Susan’s face, neck, and bare arms were a strange shade of yellow on top of her newly acquired tan, the result of meticulous application of the anti-malarial cream with which they were all provided.
Number 15 had arrived in the Algerian village of El Arrouch on a baking hot day in July of 1943. The women had thought the day exceptionally hot. They were wrong.
“Oh, God. Is that it?” Jean had groaned as a sea of canvas tents arose out of the remains of a grain field to greet them.
“I’m afraid it must be,” Moira sighed, shifting her suitcase from one hand to the other. “Oh, well, you said you wanted a change from Bramshott.”
“But I meant a pleasant change.”
A community of canvas tents had been set up on a treeless, dry plain. The stubble of fields planted years ago still showed. In the distance a line of hazy purple mountains and green trees beckoned like an oasis.
They remained in North Africa for seven months. The hospital never amounted to anything more than a city of tents on a dusty plain. The weather was never anything but extreme: too hot—even the winds were unbearably hot—and too dry when it was dry. When the torrential rains arrived in November the canvas tents leaked and the ground turned into a sea of churning mud. After Christmas it snowed on the mountains and the winds maliciously carried bitterly cold air onto the plain.
Whenever she had a moment to recover her breath, Moira thought of Grant, and she wrote to him as often as time permitted. He was still in England, still flying, that much she knew, although his letters told her little else. Only that he missed her and dreamed of the day when they could go to that jazz club in London, as they had promised each other.
In February the No. 15 was sea borne again. This time to Italy and Naples. From there they traveled inland to set up a large hospital at the town of Caserta.
The Allies braced for what they hoped would be the final push through Italy. The Nursing Sisters braced for what they knew were horrors still to come.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Will you hush, you’ll wake up the whole family.” Amber pulled a second bottle of beer from the back of the fridge.
“Hardly. I’d think your family has learned how to sleep through Armageddon, what with all the fuckin’ racket those two mutts make.” Dave grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled her white neck. “Afraid of getting caught are you, you naughty girl. I’ll have to punish you myself.” He slapped her thin bottom lightly. “Take that, and that.”
She laughed, but quickly smothered the sound. The front of her robe gaped open invitingly and Dave slipped his hand inside. His black eyes narrowed and he breathed deeply through his mouth. “Do you promise never to stop being naughty again?” He ran his fingers in light circles around her nipple, drawing it instantly erect.
“I promise.” She stretched onto her toes and kissed him deeply. “If you promise to keep on doing that.”
Hamlet and Ophelia had taken excited interest in the arrival of nighttime visitors when Dave and Amber first crept into the kitchen in search of a midnight snack. Immediately satisfied with pieces of turkey, the two dogs crawled under the table. But now they were up again, and eight long legs ran to the door leading into the rest of the house. The animals set up a furious barking.
Amber jumped, and Dave laughed. “What did I tell you, they’ll bark at anything.”
“Someone’s up. I hear footsteps.”
“So. Who cares?” He bent his head back down, seeking her mouth.
She pushed him away. “They might be hungry. They might be coming here. Let’s go, it might be Uncle Charles.” She slipped out of his embrace and tried to push him back outside.
“You think the old man wouldn’t be too happy to see the likes of me in his kitchen in the middle of the night, eh?” Dave stood his ground and twisted the top off the beer bottle in his hand. He dropped the cap to the floor. “Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“No, of course not. But he’ll make a fuss. And if it’s Auntie Megan or Grandma it’ll be almost as bad. Come on. Please, Dave.”
“I feel like a snack. You said you’d make sandwiches. I haven’t had my sandwich yet.” He opened the fridge door and peered inside. He was dressed only in a pair of shorts, a ragged T-shirt, and scuffed running shoes. Amber had felt terribly brave, sneaking him into the summer rooms above the boathouse on the nights since they had exchanged meaningful glances as the police gathered everyone together to investigate the Labor Day tragedy. They could be alone up there: no one slept over the boathouse in the winter. Amber had made up a nest of duvets and blankets dragged out of storage and warmed the room with an electric heater, candles, and her love. But now she didn’t feel quite so brave. She was terrified of her family’s reaction if they found Dave in the kitchen.
They were so prejudiced against him, she thought, the taste of bile rising in her throat. Because he was poor and had had a bad childhood.
He’d told her all about his abusive, always out of work father and his frightened, drunken mother. She’d seen the horrible scars, the white puckered flesh, and heard how the little boy had been hurt when his mother, in a drunken daze, had spilled the boiling kettle all over him. How he’d left home for the streets at age fourteen after taking a baseball bat to his dad’s head following one too many attacks on his mother. How instead of throwing his father out, the ungrateful bitch kicked Dave out of the house and told him never to come back. So he never had.
Her soft heart wrenched at the injustice of it all. She had so much and he had so little. What right did her aunts and uncle have to throw him back out to the cold of the forest?
He bent further into the refrigerator. “Never can have too much turkey.”
A creak of the staircase and an answering bark from Hamlet.
“Please, Dave. Let’s go back out to the boathouse. It’s cold in here. You can bring that with you. We’ll have a picnic. There’s so much in there, Lizzie’ll never miss it.”
He grinned and shut the fridge door with the back of his foot, cuddling packages of wrapped cheese in his arms. “I’d rather take something that’ll be missed. That’ll set the cat among the pigeons, eh? But if you promise to be really naughty, I’ll come.”
He got no further than the kitchen door, before Amber reached out an arm to stop him. “What’s that noise? Do you hear that?”
“I don’t hear
anything.” With his free hand, Dave jerked the sash from Amber’s waist and her dressing gown fell open.
“Stop that,” she hissed, clutching at the front of her robe with both hands. “Someone’s shouting. We have to go and see what’s wrong.”
“Come on, Amber. First you’re whining that we have to get out of here before Uncle Charles finds out that I’ve been fucking his precious niece, now you’re wanting to troop back into the place. Make up your mind.”
“Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me. Please. Something’s wrong. Look at the dogs.” She had made him mad. She didn’t want to make Dave mad. He’d had such a hard life. Amber only wanted to him to be happy. But the dogs were agitated as she had never seen them before.
Running footsteps sounded overhead, from the end of the corridor where Lizzie and Alan had their rooms. Someone screamed.
“Please, Dave. I have to see what’s wrong.”
He shrugged and released her. “Suit yourself. I’ll be in the boathouse.”
So intent were the dogs on whatever was happening in the cottage that they didn’t even notice as Dave threw open the kitchen door with enough force to have it rattling back and forth on its hinges.
Amber almost followed him. She didn’t want him to be angry with her.
But the scream was too loud to be ignored. Wrapping the belt of her robe tight she dashed out of the kitchen, practically tripping over Hamlet and Ophelia.
The screaming was coming from outside. Hamlet and Ophelia dashed to the front door and barked to be let out. Alan flew down the stairs, something large and red clutched in his arms. He threw the door open and dashed out into the night, the dogs following.
Traces of smoke drifted around the courtyard, stretching towards Amber like the probing fingers of a ghost. Doors opened above her, accompanied by excited voices and loud screams. Amber took the stairs two at a time.
Chapter Twenty-two
Elaine ran back to the main building, screaming as loud as she could. There was a strong wind, carrying smoke from the roof of the storage building towards the main cottage. And if the smoke could move, the flames would be close behind. She flew up the stairs and ran down the corridor, banging on doors and throwing lights on as she went. “Fire! Fire! The house is on fire!”
Alan arrived first, sprinting down the hall with nothing but a sea-green towel wrapped around his waist, falling low over his hips. Apparently he slept in the nude. Elaine was amazed at herself for noticing. Fortunately, she also noticed, he brought a small fire extinguisher.
All down the second floor corridor, doors opened and heads popped out.
“Where?” Alan shouted.
“The storage building.”
He ran down the stairs.
Charles, pulling a satin dressing gown around his shoulders, and Phoebe, clad in T-shirt and sweat pants, rushed after him.
Alan waved them away. “Get everyone out. Phoebe, call 911. Charles, make sure Moira, Megan, and Maeve are looked after. Amber, go with your uncle. Help him with the sisters.” Phoebe scurried off to find a phone, and the old man and his niece hurried down the hall.
But Ruth was ahead of them. She burst out of her room and into Moira’s next door. She was half-dragging, half-carrying a confused Moira out of her bedroom before Brad pushed her aside and scooped his fragile great-aunt up into his arms. Charles and Amber (who had lost the belt of her dressing gown and was noticeably naked underneath) impatiently hustled the continually-chattering Megan, while at the same time murmuring words of encouragement to a confused Maeve. “The paintings,” Maeve sobbed as she started down the stairs. “We have to save the paintings.”
Elliot and Alison milled about in the early stages of panic, but finally dashed down the stairs.
The family gathered outside. Red light flickered behind the dormer windows in the loft, and black smoke curled around the open doorway. Elaine couldn’t see Alan. She ran into the storage building. Alan stood at the top of the steps leading to the loft, his hand-held fire extinguisher working hard. She ran up the stairs and pulled at his bare arm. Breathing was becoming difficult. “We have to get out of here! That ceiling might collapse in a minute and the whole place will be on fire.” She coughed as much as spoke the words.
“Not if I can help it,” he muttered.
“Come on, Alan. Let’s get the hell out of here before the whole place goes,” Elaine shouted.
“But the letters.” Rivers of sweat dripped down his cheeks and bits of soot crawled into the lines of his face. How long would a hand-held fire extinguisher last, anyway? “All Moira’s letters, her mother’s letters. The cottage.” Alan again aimed the full force of the extinguisher into the loft.
The distant shriek of a siren pierced through the crackle and pop of flames over their heads.
Burly men in tan bunker gear with orange stripes, oxygen tanks, helmets, and face masks ran into the building. They dragged heavy hoses behind them, and Elaine and Alan were firmly rushed down the stairs and out of the building.
The family had gathered by the back door, dressed in a wild assortment of nightwear, gaping in disbelief. Alan tugged at his towel in embarrassment, and Lizzie slipped off her purple velour dressing gown and draped it over his shoulders.
Hamlet and Ophelia galloped around the yard in frantic circles, nipping at the thick boots of firefighters and howling their terror into the night. Sparks flew through the night air, a gorgeous sight; several landed on the roof of the main building.
“Are we all here?” Moira cried. “Anyone missing?”
The group glanced around. Megan whispered softly to herself and fingered the pearl necklace wrapped around her crepe-paper neck.
“Everyone make it out okay?” The firefighter assigned to watch over the truck and water gages ran over.
“Yes, yes. I think so,” Charles answered. “We all seem to be present and accounted for. Thank God.”
“Then get out of the way, please, sir. We have work to do. And lock those dogs up.”
Brad carried Moira to the fire truck, where, over her protests, he laid her down and wrapped her in a thick blanket. With soft whispers, as if crooning to a baby, Amber led Maeve away; the old woman didn’t seem to understand what was going on. Alan called to Phoebe to help him with the dogs and they tried, without much success, to round up the panicked animals.
A second truck arrived, taking out several planters and the overhanging limb of a gorgeous old oak. Hoses were aimed at the roof of the cottage itself, to soak it down and stop the fire from spreading. Debris rained down from the loft window onto the driveway below: bits of furniture, which weren’t in very good shape to begin with, shovelfuls of soggy black paper, boxes of documents.
With a cry, Elaine ran forward and fell on her knees before the boxes. A firefighter grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away.
“Keep back, Ma’am. Please.” It was a woman. She had pulled off her helmet in search of some fresh air. Her hair was cropped close to her head, all spiky and tipped blond. Her face was unlined, thin and elfin, a contrast to the sweat and soot streaked skin.
Elaine opened her mouth to protest: she had to protect the boxes! All the letters, lifetimes of memories! But one look at the firefighter’s steely blue eyes and Elaine’s mouth snapped shut. She meekly returned to the truck to stand with Lizzie and Amber. They were all stunned—eyes wide with shock and mouths gaping.
Mr. and Mrs. Josepheson and their son Greg stepped like ghostly apparitions out of the gloom of night and smoke. Greg took one look at the confusion, murmured that he would be right back, and disappeared.
Firefighters staggered out of the building at regular intervals. Oxygen tanks replaced, they returned to the old guesthouse. The fire seemed to be contained, at least as far as the observers could see. Smoke, thick, black, and deadly, billowed from the roof and the loft windows, but it wasn’t spreading, and the cottage itself was untouched.
With much effort and a good deal of bad language Alan and Phoebe managed to get
the dogs locked into his truck.
Screaming sirens announced another arrival: an ambulance. Moira, protesting in vain, and Maeve, too confused to object, were bustled inside. Ruth leapt aboard as the doors were closing.
At last it was over and firefighters trooped out of the door, dragging their hoses behind them, faces streaked with sweat and smoke and ashes. They pulled off their masks and gratefully sucked in great lungfuls of the fresh night air. A pump had been placed in the lake to provide water; several of the men went down to retrieve it, and pull in the hoses. A curious Brad followed.
Greg reappeared, bearing a bottle of brandy and a grocery bag full of plastic cups. He poured drinks all around. The hot liquid burned all the way down Elaine’s throat, as she appreciated every drop.
“You’re lucky.” The man who’d been watching over the trucks approached them. Firefighters discarded their outer shells, and loaded up equipment. “The blaze was contained to the outbuilding. A good bit of smoke and water damage to the second floor, but my crew say that no one seems to be in residence there. A bunch of papers and old books destroyed….”
Elaine groaned.
“…but not much else.”
Greg held a plastic cup out to the man. With a regretful smile, he shook his head.
Charles was the first to ask the question on everyone’s mind. “Can we go back inside, Mr. —”
“Johnson. I’m the captain of this crew. Fortunately the main building doesn’t appear to have been touched at all. The structure is perfectly sound, so you can go back in. But you have to stay away from that outbuilding, until we give you permission to go inside. An investigating officer will be around in the morning.”
“Arson!” Alan picked up the inference. “You’re saying this was arson?” Self-consciously he hitched the belt of the purple robe tighter around his waist.