A Nurse's Courage

by Maggie Holt

  ‘Yeah, but it ain’t touched ’er, ’as it? She’s just as sweet an’ – an’ – sort o’ fresh as she must’ve been as a little girl at St Joseph’s in Cork. There she was on ’er knees in that church, prayin’ for me to be sent back safe – I don’t feel worvy of ’er, know what I mean?’

  Albert’s voice faltered and Mabel’s blue-grey eyes softened at the sight of her rapscallion brother struggling to express feelings that were quite new to him. She rose.

  ‘Ye’re just as dear to her as she is to you, an’ that’s what counts, Albert. Look, I’ll have to go now – and when I think the time’s right, I’ll drop a hint to her about what happened to George. But as for all the rest, I don’t see how any good can come o’ rakin’ it up.’

  She bent down to kiss his cheek and he looked up at her gratefully. ‘Franks, Mabel, ye’re a good ’un. I’ll leave it up to you what yer tell ’er, then.’

  Meanwhile the constant rushing between Lambeth and Tooting during limited off-duty periods was beginning to tell on Norah. There were purplish smudges beneath the blue eyes and worry lines between them, and she was always tired. Mabel became concerned.

  ‘Yer know, Norah, ye’re goin’ to have to cut down on these visits to Tooting.’

  ‘But ye know I have to see the dear fella as often as I can, Mabel – he looks out for me.’

  ‘Yer know what’ll happen, ye’ll fall down faintin’ in the street like I did, an’ ye won’t get much sympathy from Matron,’ Mabel told her severely. ‘Don’t encourage him to be selfish.’

  ‘Ah, Mabel, he’s not selfish at all! I don’t want him to be gettin’ up an’ comin’ over here before he’s fit. It’s a terrible cough he’s still got, so!’

  ‘But ye’ll be no use to him or anybody else if yer crock up. He’s doin’ fine layin’ around playin’ cards an’ tellin’ tall stories –’

  ‘An’ waitin’ on the poor fella that’s lost an arm an’ leg – talkin’ to him, keepin’ his spirits up.’

  ‘Oh, Norah.’ That was the worst part about visiting the Tooting Home, the sight of young men crippled for life. ‘I’d never be able to nurse the wounded,’ she declared once again. ‘Every one of ’em would be Harry.’

  Albert was able to keep his promise to take Norah to see Cinderella on the last night, to their mutual joy and satisfaction. While she waited for his taxicab to arrive at the hostel entrance, Norah put on the new hat she had bought at the Cut.

  ‘Yer look a picture,’ Mabel said admiringly. ‘He’ll be bowled over by the sight o’ yer.’

  ‘An’ there was me thinkin’ I was gettin’ another stye on me eye, but it’s gone away, thanks be to God. Ah, there he is now, I can hear a bangin’ at the street door. ‘Bye, Mabel, darlin’.’

  Sitting enthralled in the semi-darkness, holding hands and joining in the laughter at the antics of the Ugly Sisters and the applause for Prince Charming and his Cinderella, every moment of the performance was engraved on Norah’s memory, right to the end when Maud Ling led the whole house in the final chorus of ‘You Made Me Love You’.

  ‘Give me, give me, what I sigh for,

  Yer know yer got the kind o’ kisses that I’d die for –’

  ‘Ah, ‘tis a grand voice ye’ve got, Albert – ye should be up there on the stage with Maudie, so!’

  Tired as he was, this was music in Albert’s ears, and he warbled through the chorus again, ending on a bout of coughing.

  ‘Sure an’ I could listen to ye all night!’ Norah said rapturously as they were clattering down the stairs, which made Albert grin at the innocent implication, though his dark eyes softened.

  ‘What abaht that ovver song, the one abaht the sailor lad ’oo was – ’ow did it go?

  ‘Mar-ri-ed to a mer-ma-id at the bottom o’ the deep blue sea!’

  ‘Jesus, Mary an’ chaste St Joseph, Albert, never sing that one again – never, d’ye hear me?’

  And he realised his mistake.

  Herbert Swayne proved to be immovable as a ‘conscientious objector’, as men like him were called, among many less complimentary names. Harry reported to Mabel that Herbert had squarely faced a contemptuous major at the tribunal and, when offered non-combatant service in the RAMC with immediate rank as sergeant and pay and separation allowance for his wife and children, he had risen from his chair and boldly declared, ‘I can’t accept it.’ Asked why not, he had replied, ‘Because it means taking part in war and killing my fellow men.’

  The major then asked him angrily what he would do if his country were to be invaded by a foreign power: suppose he had to watch his wife raped before his eyes, would he then be so squeamish about killing a man? Herbert replied that this circumstance had not arisen, and that he had no personal quarrel with young German soldiers who were in the same situation as the British men. He repeated that all forms of killing fellow human beings was against God’s commandment.

  He was then taunted as a coward, a man who would let other men fight to defend his own freedom while keeping out of harm’s way himself, and when he opened his mouth again, he was ordered to shut up. Hauled off to the guardroom at the same barracks where Harry was stationed, he appeared a few days later at a court martial where he was found guilty of contravening the Military Service Act and sentenced to 112 days’ solitary confinement in the military prison at Wandsworth. His widowed mother broke down and sobbed when she heard the news, but Ruby Swayne held up her head and vowed she would stand by her husband. The Salvation Army would take care of her and the boys, she said, and refused to accept a penny from her parents; it was not their fault that her husband held the views he did.

  Mabel sent a note of sympathy to Ruby which Harry passed on, but there was little else that she could do. Deep down in her heart she had mixed feelings about Captain Swayne’s brand of heroism. Knowing of Harry’s fears and her own on his behalf, of Albert at the mercy of the U-boats, Stephen Knowles’s experience at the clearing station that had been shelled and Maudie’s Alex flying his fragile craft over the scenes of battle – and the tens of thousands of killed and wounded, the endless ‘In Memoriam’ columns in the newspapers . . . she could not be wholly sympathetic towards the pacifist objector.

  ‘What’ll Herbert do in prison?’ she asked.

  ‘Sew mailbags, same as the rest, I s’pose,’ Harry replied gloomily. ‘He’s not to have any visitors for the first month an’ his letters to Ruby’ll have to be read by the military. I doubt he’ll be allowed any exercise out o’ doors, an’ the food’ll be bread an’ water. Poor Herbert.’

  ‘And when the sentence is finished, what’ll happen then?’

  ‘Another conscription board, an’ then it’ll be up to him, Mabel.’ Harry turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘It’s his life – his decision. Poor Ruby.’

  ‘Norah, I been wantin’ to talk to yer for ages an’ there’s never enough time. Put yer cloak round yer an’ walk down to Lambeth Pier with me.’

  It was one of those blowy March days with spring in the air but winter still evident in the leafless trees around Lambeth Palace and the pinched faces of Londoners hurrying with heads down against the wind. The two young women reached the embankment and paused, looking down at the uninviting grey surface of the water.

  Mabel swallowed. How to begin? And how much to say? She linked an arm through Norah’s. ‘There’s somethin’ Albert wants yer to know, an’ I said I’d have a word with yer.’

  ‘Albert?’ The Irish girl was immediately alert. ‘Good or bad, is it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it good, Norah. It’s about our family. About the Courts.’

  ‘Ah – d’ye mean yer poor mother an’ father?’

  ‘Well – er, yes. Yer know they both died in 1912 within weeks of each other, an’ that broke the family up. And – an’ me brother George went to Canada on a child emigration scheme with boys from Dr Barnardo’s.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the poor little fella. Ye took him to Waterloo Station, an’ by the grace o’ God ye met Davy Hoek to look
after him. It must’ve broken yer heart, Mabel.’

  ‘But Norah, I’ve never told yer why, have I?’

  ‘Why he went away, yer mean? Didn’t he say he wanted to go after yer parents had died so sudden and the home was given up? And didn’t them kind aunts o’ yours offer to take him wid Alice an’ Daisy, but he said he’d rather go to Canada? Wasn’t that it?’ asked Norah, who had clearly taken everything she had been told at face value. And what she had just said was true, of course, only . . .

  ‘I’ve never told yer how me father died.’ Mabel heard her voice falter as she spoke and Norah heard it too, for she smiled and took her friend’s hand.

  ‘Didn’t he fall downstairs and hit his head awkward, like? Maybe ye’re tryin’ to tell me he was drunk – is that it?’

  The river flowed on silently below them as Mabel hesitated. ‘Yes, Norah, he was, and poor George, y’ see, he – he saw his dad fall downstairs an’ realised he was dead. He was in a shocking state, poor boy.’

  ‘Sure ‘twas a terrible thing, a man full o’ drink, his own father an’ all,’ said Norah softly. ‘’Twas no wonder he was so keen to get right away from everythin’ that reminded him of it. But why should dear Albert worry about what I think?’

  ‘It’s always bothered Albert an’ me that George was sent all that way so soon after the trouble, and him only twelve,’ answered Mabel. ‘But it was for the best, Norah, an’ George’s own idea – even Dr Knowles said it’d be better to let him go with the Barnardo boys.’ Or land in court on a murder charge, she thought, trembling as she remembered the scene that had met her eyes on returning home on that fatal June afternoon: her father’s body falling to the floor of the living-room, and George with his face full of horror and his arm still upraised after delivering the fatal blow.

  Norah put an arm around her waist. ‘Oh, Mabel, I’d never blame yer, nor Albert, sure I wouldn’t. Ye had to do what ye thought was best for the boy and so it’s turned out, wid him meetin’ Davy and them bein’ such good friends an’ all. Don’t let it trouble ye any more.’

  The girls stood together by the pier, the ‘tails’ of their white caps flapping in the wind. Mabel wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Eventually Norah spoke quietly.

  ‘And yer poor mother, Mabel, she’d already gone when this happened, hadn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, Norah, she drowned. Don’t ask me to talk about her – she’d been troubled an’ unhappy for a long time, an’ –’

  ‘Ssh, Mabel, not another word. Yer father was a drinker, that’s for sure, an’ she must’ve had a hard life, God rest her soul.’ Norah crossed herself and Mabel knew that there would never be any need to divulge poor Annie Court’s shameful secret.

  ‘Me father was a weak man rather than a bad one, Norah. His mother was never married an’ she passed him off as the son of an Indian official or some such, but it’s more likely his father was a sailor from the East Indies. That’s why Albert’s so dark, an’ Alice an’ Daisy both got the same black hair. I’m fair like me mother and so’s George – and so was poor little Walter who died. Me own sisters don’t know what I’ve just told yer, Norah. Only Albert an’ Harry know – an’ Maudie’s got a pretty good idea, too – she’s always been a good friend, like yerself.’

  ‘And did Albert want ye to tell me this old unhappy story, Mabel?’

  ‘Yes, he thought yer should know, seein’ that ye’re goin’ to be married,’ said Mabel with guilty relief that this partial revelation had been so willingly accepted.

  ‘Oh, God love him! As if he could help what happened all them years ago, before I ever knew yer,’ said Norah, unconsciously echoing Mabel’s own words to Albert. ‘Look, Mabel, ye’re gettin’ cold, we both are. Let’s take ourselves back an’ have a nice hot cup o’ tea!’

  Stepping briskly back along the familiar street, Norah tightened her hold on her friend’s arm.

  ‘Y’know, Mabel, there’s somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to say to you and I might as well say it now if ye don’t mind listenin’,’ she began. ‘I been thinkin’ about a lot o’ things since Albert’s come back, an’ the way me life’s changed ’cause of meetin’ yeself an’ him. Bein’ in love, Mabel, ye know it makes ye look at everythin’ in a new way –’

  ‘’Course I do, Norah,’ Mabel answered, though unable to guess at what was coming next.

  ‘Ye know I’ve always been so sorry for meself, brought up wid no family o’ me own.’

  ‘Oh, Norah, dear, I know – and I’ve always felt for yer, not havin’ a mother – or anybody.’

  ‘Once upon a time I had a mother, Mabel, and I know now that she must’ve suffered for it. She couldn’t keep me, and maybe she held me an’ kissed me for the last time when I went to the Sisters o’ Mercy.’

  ‘Oh, Norah –’ As always, Mabel’s heart was touched at the thought of a motherless child and she set aside her own dark memories.

  ‘But I was much better off than some. We were well cared for at St Joseph’s, Mother Patrick saw to that, and when she saw I was quick to learn, she let me go to the convent school. The other children in the orphanage had to go to the school in the town, but I got a free convent education that other girls had to pay a lot for, an’ it’s only now I see how favoured I was. And Sister Dymphna, her that was always smilin’, she gave me a beautiful doll that she’d had as a little girl, and showed me how to make clothes and hats for her. And the old lay sister in the kitchen used to let me help her to bake bread – ooh, I can smell it now!’

  ‘Why, Norah, ye’ve never said anythin’ about this before! I always thought yer were lonely there.’

  ‘I was sorry for meself, Mabel, that was the trouble – and I let Mother Patrick down, after all she did for me.’

  ‘How d’ye mean, let her down?’

  ‘Well, Sister Dominic said I’d make a good teacher one day, so I was prepared for the Irish entrance examination – an’ I failed it. Mother Patrick was that disappointed – and then Miss Greene came lookin’ for a lady’s maid to take wid her to England – and so I left in disgrace.’

  ‘Oh, Norah, don’t blame yerself just for failin’ an exam! An’ if ye’d gone in for teachin’, ye’d still be over in Ireland an’ we’d never have met. And me brother wouldn’t’ve known yer – just think about that! Harry would say that it was all the Lord’s doin’.’

  They had reached the entrance to the nurses’ hostel and were climbing the stairs.

  ‘Sure ye’re right, Mabel, but I’ll never again say that I was a poor orphan – not like those little children ye’ve told me about at that babies’ home. Meetin’ yerself an’ Albert has made me see the good things o’ me childhood, an’ I’m grateful to the Sisters o’ Mercy. I’ll write to Mother Patrick an’ say so.’

  Mabel had no words left. She simply clung to Norah McLoughlin and thought of George and little Mary at the Midway and all the lonely, forsaken children in the world.

  Chapter Ten

  SPRING HAD COME again and a glimmering green haze covered London’s parks; in suburban streets the humble privet hedges put out new shoots and even in the bleakest slum the sunlight penetrated down to sooty courtyards, drawing pale children out into the warmer air.

  The Midway Babies’ Home felt the benefit of the change of season, along with the other improvements brought about by the new benefactress on the Board of Guardians. With Mr Poole’s support and her husband’s generous allowances, Olive Spearmann had had walls repainted and brightly coloured prints put up; rugs had appeared on bare wooden floors, and there were hard-wearing toys to play with, like building bricks, bouncy rubber balls, tin drums and steel triangles to make satisfying sounds. Best of all were the various lady helpers who put on overalls and spent an afternoon each week playing with the children. Mrs Spearmann’s latest idea was to advertise for local families to invite a child from the Midway – or two or three – to tea in their homes, as a special treat.

  ‘It’s uphill work, but it’s a start,’ she told Sarah Brewer afte
r a joint meeting of the Board. ‘The great need is for good quality staff and I’ll be after your newly qualified nurses, Matron!’

  ‘But I shan’t have any to spare, Mrs Spearmann,’ answered Miss Brewer sharply, knowing that the lady had her eye on Nurse Court. ‘My staff are working under tremendous pressure as it is and if I lose just one of this year’s finalists, I’ll be stretched beyond the limit.’

  Olive Spearmann sighed. She was already unpopular for resigning the chairmanship of the Clapham Ladies’ Committee and now Mrs Hodges had also withdrawn from it, and not only because she was expecting a third child. Arthur Hodges had been summoned to attend a conscription board where he had been put on reserve for military service, and Ada was distraught, railing against the inhumanity of removing husbands and fathers from their families, to go and fight in a war they had never asked for. When she met her old friend Mabel Court taking her usual morning walk after night duty, she subjected her to a bitter tirade.

  ‘It’s making me ill, the worry of it all, Mabel. I wasn’t half as bad when I was expecting the other two. If my Arthur has to go abroad, what will become of us? He sees little enough of us, now that half the staff have left Lipton’s. Dad couldn’t possibly manage without him. I’d give anything – anything – to have the whole hateful business over!’

  ‘It’s the same with Harry, Ada, he could be sent for any day,’ Mabel pointed out gently. ‘And Maudie’s Alex is out in France with the –’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mabel, it’s all very well for you and your single friends with no ties or responsibilities. I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like when there are children to feed and care for – how much a family needs the husband and father to take care o’ the home!’

  Her eyes filled with tears and she hiccuped painfully.

  ‘It’s my nerves, y’see, Mabel. I get morning sickness all day long.’

  ‘Ada, dear, yer must try to think about the little one on the way,’ Mabel urged her. ‘Gettin’ into a state won’t do you or the children any good. Try to be brave for them – and for Arthur.’