by Ellie Dean
Our friend has arrived, but had to be rushed into theatre. I wouldn’t tell anyone just yet in case she doesn’t pull through, but I’ll leave it to you to decide what to do about visiting.
Ron crushed the note in his fist and sent up a silent prayer to whichever God was listening that Danuta would prove resilient enough to overcome whatever horrors the Gestapo had inflicted upon her. He had no fears that the doctors at the Memorial might not be skilled enough to repair her, for he’d seen the miracles they’d performed on patients not expected to survive – but there was still this sickening guilt and fear that he’d been instrumental in her plight, and if she didn’t pull through, he’d have the burden of that guilt haunting him for the rest of his life.
He opened the door to let Harvey out, and then put a match to the note and watched it burn to ash in the scullery sink. Washing it away, he went back to his bedroom to get dressed and see to his ferrets. In a strange way, he felt perversely glad that he had Danuta to worry about as a distraction from his fears about Rosie and Major Radwell. In the grand scheme of this war, his falling-out with Rosie was a very minor event, even though it broke his heart. There was little he could do about it but keep faith in Rosie and take each day as it came until she returned home. He could dedicate himself to being around for Danuta, when he so clearly hadn’t been around for Rosie.
Going outside to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs, Ron dodged the vicious cockerel which had taken a great dislike to him, and firmly shut the gate on the pen. ‘To be sure, Adolf, you need to mind your manners, or you’ll be next for the pot,’ he warned.
Upstairs in the kitchen, he found Sarah waiting for the kettle to boil, dressed in her WTC uniform of jodhpurs, green sweater and sturdy shoes. ‘Good morning, Ron. Lovely day, isn’t it?’ she said cheerfully.
‘Aye, it is that, especially when the hens have laid so well.’ He carefully put the bowl of precious eggs on the wooden draining board. ‘Are you sure your ankle will take that long walk, wee girl?’ he asked in concern, eyeing the heavy strapping.
‘It’s much better today, thanks, Ron, so I thought I’d give it a go. If it’s too painful, then I’ll try and get a lift back this evening, but the work will be piling up and it isn’t fair to leave it all to someone else.’
‘I’ll walk up there with you,’ he said, slapping a couple of slices of the gritty mess that passed as bread these days onto the hot plate, and setting a pan of water to boil the eggs beside them. Rationing meant they were allowed one egg a week if they were lucky enough to find any in the shops, and he was eternally grateful to those young Australians who’d brought them the stolen hens on that Christmas Day at the beginning of the war.
‘Ivy told me about Rita and the Australian chap who fixed her motorbike,’ said Sarah, pouring out the tea. She grinned. ‘I think Ivy was rather bowled over by him, but I’m glad Rita’s got the bike back in one piece – I know how much she treasures it.’
Ron had heard all about the Australian from Peggy, and rather shared her concerns that Rita might be falling too hard and too fast for the young man they knew so little about, but as Sarah was also on the horns of a romantic dilemma, he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Aye, her father found it abandoned a couple of years before the war, and Rita helped him to restore it. It was a labour of love for both of them, so it was, and very much a part of her close relationship with her father, so of course it’s precious.’
He added the eggs to the boiling water and set the timer. ‘She was a bright wee girl even at that age,’ he said fondly, ‘and Jack taught her all he knew about machines, which has stood her in good stead.’
‘I wish I had a skill like that, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t know a piston from a pillion.’
Ron chuckled. ‘We all have our different talents, Sarah. It’s what makes life interesting.’ He glanced up at the clock and hurried to turn on the wireless so it would warm up in time for the early news.
They were already eating their eggs and toast when the announcer declared that the news that morning seemed positive. The 5th Army had broken through the German battle lines and was now engaged in fierce fighting right on the outskirts of Rome. The city was expected to fall within hours – which would secure the first major victory of the war in Europe.
Meanwhile, there had been fresh Allied landings on islands near New Guinea, and the Russians were preventing the Germans from strengthening their position in the Romanian hills. Nothing much had changed on the home front, but there was a stern warning that anyone caught breaking the travel restrictions would be heavily penalised.
Ron grunted as the news came to an end. ‘Still nothing about an invasion. What the divil are they waiting for?’
Sarah cleared away the dirty dishes and pulled on her coat. She glanced out of the window and gave a soft groan. ‘The sun’s gone, and there are some nasty black clouds rolling in. It looks as if we’re about to have more blessed rain.’ She reached for her umbrella, hat and scarf. ‘If this weather doesn’t improve there’ll never be an invasion.’
Ron silently agreed, for beachhead landings had a tragic history of failure, even when the weather was fair. After the debacle at Slapton, he doubted very much that Churchill and Eisenhower would risk more unnecessary deaths by sending them into the Channel during such rough conditions.
He rammed his old cap over his untidy hair, dragged on his tweed jacket and checked he had his pipe and tobacco. If he was going to persuade the matron at the Memorial to let him see Danuta, then he had to look reasonably respectable. He clicked his fingers at Harvey, who was hoovering up toast crumbs from beneath the table, and the three of them left the house for the challenging walk to the Cliffe estate.
It took longer than usual, for Sarah was still going cautiously on her twisted ankle and the wind had risen in strength, hampering their progress, but they reached the top without incident and Sarah took a deep breath of satisfaction.
‘I’ll be fine from here on,’ she said. ‘It’s all downhill, and as I’ll be sitting at a desk all day, I’ll have plenty of time to rest it for the walk back.’
Ron grinned and patted her shoulder. ‘I know how much you like your independence, but if you can get a lift home, then do so. Better not to overdo things too soon – and it could be tipping down by then,’ he added, looking up at the scudding black clouds.
He kept an eye on her until she reached the country lane and disappeared out of sight. Then he stood for a moment to watch the planes take off and land beneath the ominous clouds which were now masking the sun. He could smell the rain in the gusting wind, and feel the chill of it through his jacket as huge, white-capped waves rolled in to explode against the base of the chalk cliffs and scatter glittering sprays of spindrift. Gulls shrieked, battling to stay on course, and the poor men manning the big guns along the clifftop were huddled miserably in the lee of the sandbag defences in their greatcoats and tin hats.
‘So much for summer,’ he grumbled softly before slowly descending the hill and heading for the Memorial Hospital which lay beyond the fields and grazing sheep, hidden by spurs of private woodland which stretched along the far horizon.
He found he was sheltered from the wind as he reached the valley and as he crossed the ancient stone bridge, he paused for a moment to gaze into the clear water of the meandering river that fed the reed beds several miles to the west. He called to Harvey, who was splashing about trying to catch a frog, and then tramped up the rutted track, breathing in the scents of wild onion and garlic.
The hedgerows on either side of him were displaying the jewelled colours of dark blue speedwell, golden marsh marigolds, dog violets intertwined with pale pink dog roses and the froth of white hawthorn blossom. Crows had built their nests in the treetops, pigeons and gulls were pecking in the lush grass of the grazing pastures, and despite the wind and the threat of rain, Ron could hear the beautiful song of a skylark high above him.
He knew there were quicker, easier ways to get to the h
ospital, but he loved this walk. He rarely met anyone, and the peace and solitude reminded him forcibly of why they were fighting a war, and how very important it was that they won it. He carried on walking as Harvey investigated the ditches beneath the hedgerows and whined in frustration as he saw rabbits feeding beyond that impenetrable barrier of bramble thorns and stinging nettles.
The woods behind Agatha Fullerton’s property stretched for five or six miles, and hidden deep within them was a dark, cold pool where Ron went hunting for eels – but that was not his mission for today. A high boundary fence ran between Agatha’s land and the large manor house estate that had once belonged to the Finlay-White family, but Ron had made a gap in it long ago, which he’d disguised with tree branches, and it had yet to be discovered. Perhaps, once he knew how things stood with Danuta, he’d come back, for there was nothing tastier than a bowl of jellied eel.
Ron was familiar with the tragic story of the wealthy Finlay-Whites, for he’d known the grandson, who’d joined the same regiment as him at the start of the last war, and like so many others, neither he nor his father had survived the trenches. The dowager had worn black from that day on, rather like Queen Victoria when she’d lost Albert, and having no heirs, she’d willed Holmwood House and the entire estate to the armed forces in memory of her lost loved ones.
Ron passed his secret gap in the fence with barely a glance and reached the top of the track to lean on the five-bar gate and look down at the Finlay-White Memorial Hospital for Injured Servicemen. Apart from the addition of a new west wing, the house didn’t look very different from when he’d once worked there as a part-time odd-job man and gardener. The bricks were mellow ochre, the many windows looking out from beneath fancy gabled roofs to sweeping lawns and neat flower beds.
His eyesight was still as good as ever, and he could see people moving about on the terrace and croquet lawn accompanied by nurses and orderlies whose uniforms glowed white in the gathering gloom. He felt a deep pang of sadness for the many young lives that had been lost or irreparably damaged because of the war, and prayed that Danuta had come through the operation.
It was still very early, so Ron lingered for a while to smoke his pipe and reminisce. Kitty had been a patient here, and so had Mike Taylor, young Ruby’s Canadian. Both had suffered life-changing injuries, but they’d pulled through and were living life to the full, so he had to keep faith that Danuta would too. He fully admitted to himself that he was reluctant to go down there and find out how she was, and silently berated himself for being a coward before tapping the spent tobacco from his pipe and clambering over the gate.
‘Come on, Harvey,’ he murmured. ‘All this speculation does no one any good.’
He strode down the lawn towards the terrace as the first drops of icy rain splattered over him. By the time he’d reached the double doors, the terrace and croquet lawn were deserted, so he ordered Harvey to wait beneath a nearby bench and pushed his way into the hall. He could hear voices and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on polished floors, and wrinkled his nose at the reek of disinfectant before he headed for the matron’s office.
Ron had always been wary of matrons, for past experience had proved they stood no nonsense and rarely had a sense of humour, but today he was feeling quite confident. The battleaxe who’d once ruled this place with an iron fist and sour temperament had long since been moved to another hospital, and Ron hoped her replacement would prove to be more helpful and understanding.
He took off his cap, smoothed his hair and eyebrows, and rapped lightly on the door.
The door opened and Ron’s heart sank. The officious Matron Billings from Cliffehaven General, with whom he’d had several unpleasant run-ins, stood in the open doorway.
Her gimlet gaze pierced him with disfavour. ‘What do you want at this hour, Reilly?’
He gripped his cap and returned her stare. ‘I’ve come to enquire about a patient who was brought in very early this morning.’
‘Visiting hours are from two until four,’ she said briskly as she began to close the door on him.
Ron shoved his boot in the narrowing gap. ‘I’m Miss Chmielewski’s guardian,’ he said firmly, ‘and therefore have a right to know if she came through her operation.’
The large bosom rose and fell as the narrowed eyes regarded him. ‘I was not aware that Miss Chim … Miss Chemyl …’ She gave up the struggle. ‘There is no mention of you in her notes,’ she said coldly.
‘I doubt she has any notes,’ retorted Ron. ‘But you know very well that she used to live with us at Beach View when she worked in the laundry at the Cliffehaven General. You were the matron there at the time.’
‘I can’t be expected to remember everyone,’ she snapped. ‘And I’m not at liberty to discuss patients with the likes of you.’ She glared at him and attempted to close the door, but Ron’s heavy boot was still in the way.
‘I’m not leaving until I know if she survived the operation,’ he said.
‘If you don’t, I shall call security and have you thrown out.’
Ron smiled, for he knew that security consisted of two elderly, overweight men who spent most of their time drinking tea in the storeroom and reading the Racing Post. He decided to play her at her own game, and removed his foot from the door. ‘I’ll be back at visiting time, then. What ward’s she on?’
‘She’s in the recovery room at present, but will be transferred to Women’s Surgical when the surgeon is satisfied with her progress.’ Matron closed the door with rather more force than was necessary.
Ron grinned, for now he knew Danuta had come through the op. All he had to do next was find the recovery room. He hurried down the corridor, his memory of past visits taking him straight to the doctors’ changing rooms. Making sure the coast was clear, he slipped in and quickly swapped his jacket and cap for a white coat and a stethoscope which he found conveniently tucked in one of the pockets.
Bundling his cap into his jacket pocket, he strode out into the grounds and quickly deposited the jacket next to a rather bewildered Harvey who was sheltering from the rain beneath a rhododendron bush. ‘Stay there and look after that,’ muttered Ron. ‘I won’t be long.’
Returning inside, he finger-combed his hair into some sort of order and strode with purpose towards the operating theatres which were situated in the new west wing. He’d studied how the doctors swept importantly about when he’d briefly been in hospital, so knew that with the right swagger and wearing a white coat, he would pass muster.
He smiled vaguely at patients hobbling past on crutches, and nodded solemnly at the few nurses, who obviously didn’t recognise him, but who clearly thought he belonged there. He continued on until he reached the two theatres and then followed the signs to the recovery room. Pausing to look through the round windows cut into the swing doors, he saw four occupied beds, and the back of a nurse who was sitting at a table in the middle of the room.
He took a breath, pushed through the doors and strode to the table. ‘I’ve come to check on Miss—’ He met a pair of very familiar, laughing brown eyes.
Nurse Hopkins giggled softly. ‘Hello, Ron,’ she whispered. ‘What on earth are you doing here in that get-up?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he said, tipping her a wink. ‘I need to see how Danuta is.’
‘If Matron catches you we’ll both be in trouble,’ she replied, looking over her shoulder towards the door. ‘But Danuta’s doing very well, considering, and the surgeon is quite hopeful she’ll make a full recovery. But it’ll be a long haul. She suffered some terrible injuries.’
Ron could see the girl had been moved by Danuta’s plight – just as she had when she’d nursed Kitty through her painful recovery. ‘Can I see her?’
‘Just for a second, then you must go, Ron.’ She cast another fearful look towards the door, then led him to the bed in the corner.
Ron’s heart twisted as he looked down at the tiny figure that was almost lost in the whiteness of that hospital bed, and the cage which had
been placed over her feet to take the weight of the bedclothes. Danuta’s little face was bruised and battered, her nostrils plugged with bloody gauze beneath the thick strip of tape. Her fair hair had been hacked in lumps from her head, one arm was in plaster, the fingers of both hands heavily bandaged; and as he gently lifted the sheet at the bottom of the bed, he saw that her feet were also swathed in bandages.
‘What did those devils do to her?’ he managed hoarsely.
‘We were told she’d been caught in an air raid,’ Nurse Hopkins whispered back, ‘but we could all see she’d been tortured.’ She blinked back her tears and replaced the sheet over the cage. ‘Her nails had been torn out, her nose and arm broken, and there were burns.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Burns all over her body. Someone had punched her so hard the surgeon had to remove her spleen – and …’ She swallowed again. ‘There were other things, Ron, too awful to mention.’
Tears blurred his sight as he reached down to gently touch Danuta’s wrist. ‘You’re home safe now, wee girl,’ he managed gruffly before he turned away. ‘Thank you, Nurse Hopkins. I’ll be back at visiting time.’
He strode out of the recovery room before he made a fool of himself by bursting into tears. Dragging off the white coat, he rammed the stethoscope back in the pocket and left them on a nearby chair, and then hurried outside into the rain.
Ron could feel the rage building inside him as he gathered up his jacket and broke into a run towards the trees. And once he’d negotiated the five-bar gate, he let it out in a great anguished roar that echoed through the trees and down into the valley.
The rain battered his tear-streaked face as he lifted it to the lowering sky and bellowed his pain and wrath against the men who’d done such a thing – and against the all-seeing, all-loving God who’d turned a blind eye and let it happen. ‘Why, God?’ he stormed. ‘Why Danuta when it should have been me or those Nazi bastards?’ he yelled, his clenched fists raised to the heavens.
But there was no answer and Ron’s shoulders slumped as he lowered his head and wept.