by Milly Adams
They, too, nodded, and this time on the train they found seats, but not together, and slept like the dead because there was nothing more to be said, though there was a heaviness in their hearts, which Bryony felt would never go.
At the end of the week, Melvin’s name was on the pub blackboard. Eddie put his arm around her. ‘It happens. We go on. It’s war.’
She said. ‘You must be careful.’ That was all, and then she joined the girls in a game of dominoes, thinking of Cissie, whose reading and sums were in line with everyone else’s now. It was all you could do, in wartime.
Chapter Eighteen
Late February 1941
Jersey
Hannah cycled to the nursing home, checking her watch as she seemed to soar over the bridge and then took the left-hand turn. She pushed harder on the pedals, because she’d be late, and that would set off Mrs Amos again, and perhaps Sister Maria would hear. It could mean the sack this time.
The wind was behind her as she turned the corner, and she pushed harder on the pedals, tearing past walls and bare hedges careful to keep on the right-hand side of the road, as the German authorities dictated. She checked her watch again as she swept into the drive, powering for the back door. She parked her bike in the shed. Well, she was almost on time. It was twelve minutes past six, and why the patients had to have breakfast at that ungodly hour, no one could tell her, beyond the fact that there were babies who needed feeding. Well, why couldn’t they be trained to wait?
It was warm and steamy in the kitchen and Mrs Amos was stirring milk into the porridge. The milk was a gift from Uncle Thomas’s farm. The cook, her hair in a net, laid the huge spoon on a plate at the side of the range and snatched a look at Hannah. ‘Are those stockings I see beneath your socks, girl? It’s as well your mother . . .’ She stopped, tutted and shook her head. ‘You’re late, again.’
Hannah pulled a face as she hung her mackintosh on the peg on the back of the door, and the scarf she had inherited from her mother. Silly old fool, what did she know about anything? Yes, she was wearing stockings, and that was because Hans liked to watch her put them on, and why shouldn’t a girlfriend accept a gift from the man she loved? A man who was worth twice as much as any of the men she had so far known, and what the hell did it matter if he had been born in Munich and had different beliefs? And how dare this mere cook bring up her mother.
‘Hurry up then, Hannah, and help me plate up the porridge. You can see I’ve set the trays ready, though that should be your job. You’ll need to hurry, we’ve a lot to do because the scullery girl is down with this chest that’s going round. We had two new babies last night and I’m popping up to see them soon, why not come?’
Hannah put on the shoes she kept in her locker, picked up one of the huge trays and stood at the range while Mrs Amos ladled in the porridge. There was not even one lump, and Hannah wondered how she managed it. Back at the cottage the only one who produced lumpless porridge was Sylvia, but now she had gone it was up to Hannah, and she just couldn’t get it right. Hans didn’t mind but Cheryl just picked out the best bits.
At least Rosie, being a dog, made no complaints and gobbled anything that was put in her bowl, as long as it wasn’t Hans who gave it to her. The dog would have to go, because her hackles rose whenever he came near and it was embarrassing.
Mrs Amos said, ‘Come on, what are you staring at, it’s only porridge and won’t bite. It’ll be cold before you get it upstairs at this rate.’
Hannah’s focus returned to the kitchen, and she backed out through the swing doors and up the stairs, straining under the weight of the tray. Her back ached, the chilblains on her big toes itched and she didn’t feel well. What’s more, she hated having to serve these women who looked at her as though she was something they’d found under their shoe.
She lugged the tray into Rose Ward and placed it on the end of the long table that stretched down the centre of the room. Some women had not yet had their children, and two in the corner were in early labour, judging from the way they were wincing, and bending over the beds. One of the women who had born twins two days ago called, ‘How are you doing, Hannah? I was so sorry to hear about your mother. Not much of a welcome to your New Year.’
Hannah swallowed.
Sandra, lying like Lady Muck in the bed by the window, said loud enough for Hannah to hear, ‘I expect the poor woman was stressed out by her daughter’s carrying on.’
Hannah continued to lay out the porridge bowls, with a spoon at the side of each. She heard Sylvia’s voice, loud and clear from the ward entrance. ‘Sandra, that’s quite enough of that. Have some compassion. We don’t choose who we love.’
Hannah kept her eyes on the table until she had finished laying up. Sylvia was working hard to become a fully fledged nurse, though whether the wartime training, under occupation, would ever be validated was another matter. Hannah whispered as she left, ‘Thank you.’
Sylvia just said, ‘Tulip Ward is waiting for their food, Hannah.’ Her voice was totally neutral as it always was now, as though Hannah was a stranger. It had been like that since Hans had moved into the cottage full-time to share Hannah’s bedroom, and Sigmund had moved in to share Cheryl’s. Sylvia had moved out on Christmas Day night after the doctor had knocked on the door. ‘Hannah, your mother has had a stroke. She left written instructions that if she became ill she was to remain at Haven Farm and not be hospitalised. Sylvia – Thomas and Olive Charlton have asked if it would it be possible for you to move in to help with the nursing?’
‘What about me?’ Hannah had asked, dragging on her coat. ‘I should come.’
The doctor had looked at her, with a look that was close to Sylvia’s neutral expression. ‘Would you like to nurse your mother, then?’
‘Well, not nurse. I don’t know enough. But I want to see her, of course I do.’
Doctor Clements had merely nodded and returned to his car, taking the two girls to Haven Farm.
When her mother had died a few days later, Sylvia had not returned. Now she lodged in Hannah’s empty bedroom at the farmhouse.
Hannah leaned the tray against the wall by the double doors of Rose Ward, and hurried down to collect the other breakfasts. The routine was always the same, and she could do it in her sleep. They had more old people in an annexe now, and the matron, Sister Maria, had suggested last week that Hannah might like to introduce a painting class. She hadn’t been sure, but Sister Maria had hinted that perhaps there would be a bit of money in it. The elderly weren’t sure either, it transpired, after she had visited them one afternoon. Sister Maria had said it would help if she didn’t wear lipstick, and face powder, because no one but Jerry-bags could acquire it.
She had also suggested she take it off for her mother’s funeral, too, which she had done, because the term Jerry-bag had hurt. Couldn’t people see that she was a girl who had lost her mother and was now an orphan? It wasn’t her fault that other people didn’t know how kind Hans was, how well he kissed, how much he liked her pictures, how he had held her when she returned from Haven Farm with the image of her mother, who no longer looked alive, filling her mind.
He had insisted he would come with her the next day to visit, but her uncle had refused him admittance, on her mother’s express orders when she had briefly regained consciousness. That was the trouble with people, they only saw the uniform, not the man.
Mrs Amos called from the kitchen as Hannah hurried down the stairs, ‘Come along, Hannah. The breakfasts are getting cold.’
‘We need someone else to help,’ Hannah said, running down the corridor, and lifting the tray.
‘No we don’t, you just need to get a move on,’ Mrs Amos snapped, and Hannah parroted her words to the cook’s back.
Mrs Amos was scraping the bottom of the pan and Hannah grimaced. ‘It’s not burnt is it, Mrs Amos? You know I hate burnt porridge.’
‘Get a move on, Hannah, or there will be none for you, burnt or not. I’ll take the last tray, and follow you up.’
> Hannah turned on her heel and led the way, with Mrs Amos too close behind. As they turned the corner the older woman’s tray nudged her. ‘Hey,’ Hannah called.
‘Well, hurry up, girl.’ Mrs Amos was panting, but she’d had the cold that was going round, and her chest was still bad. Hannah put on a spurt and almost ran into Tulip Ward, slapping down the tray and then placing the bowls of porridge on the table, thinking of Hans’s hands on her this morning as she had slipped on her stockings and eased the loop of the suspenders over the button. That’s why she had been late; the thought made her smile, and she brushed aside the contempt on the faces of the women in the ward.
On her way back to the kitchen she paused outside the nursery, looking through the glass at the crying babies who would not be fed until breakfast was finished. Hans had been a baby once, like these. He was a human being, and he was going to win the war and give her a good life, so what the hell did she care about what this lot thought?
She spent the rest of the morning washing dishes and preparing vegetables. The carrots made her fingers orange, the swede was woody and past its best. Mrs Amos sat on the stool, and had Hannah running about like a servant. Hans had said yesterday evening that he felt she was made for better things. Well, of course she was, but as she had said to him, there was no art college here.
She had told him of Sister Maria’s suggestion that she should teach some of the elderly but they hadn’t liked her make-up, and how ridiculous was that?
He had nodded, and pulled her onto his knee in front of the fire that roared in the grate. Roared, because he could acquire logs. ‘When I write to my family of us, which I intend to do when Britain is defeated, it would be good to say that you teach art. Do you see, Liebchen? That would be admired, whereas orange fingers might not.’ He had kissed those fingers and then her mouth.
She started to pull off the outer leaves of the sprouts. Mrs Amos shouted, ‘No, wash them, how often do I have to tell you. We need every tiny bit of vitamin C for our charges.’
She carried them through to the scullery, nervous at the thought of Hans’s family. What if they thought of her as these people did. What if in Germany she was called a – well, what? There must be a name.
The water was icy as she ran it into the colander and she gasped as it splashed her apron and soaked through to her skin. She turned off the tap, and shook the colander before tipping the first of the washed sprouts into the huge pan. Again and again Hannah washed and drained, and tipped.
Even his superiors on the island did not want their men fraternising with the locals. This was why his official billet was still the house next door. But how long could they keep it a secret, because there were men in suits and macs now, walking around the place in pairs. They were called the Gestapo, and were secret police. They were said to listen at windows, because although wirelesses had been allowed again they were spotting houses that had them, for when there was a new round of confiscations. Or so Cheryl said.
This morning, after Hans had dragged her back to bed, she had finished dressing and reached for her make-up but he had laid his hand on hers. ‘You are pretty enough without, for those at the nursing home. When you have finished your chores, see Sister Maria again, and make your suggestion that you will enlighten the hours of the old. Perhaps this time you will be welcome. Hannah, my lovely Hannah, you waste your talent, when you could be improving your standing.’
She heaved the pan from the draining board into the kitchen. ‘Let me check,’ Mrs Amos insisted. She carried the pan to the cook, who peered into it. ‘Yes, good girl. Pop them down the end of the table for later, and Hannah, I like the new look.’ Her voice was gentle. ‘Perhaps you should see if Sister Maria would like you to show the ladies how to sketch, now?’
Hannah smiled. ‘Hans will be pleased. He wants his parents to like me, even though I’m British. He thinks it will help if I’m an artist, not a cook.’
Mrs Amos flushed. ‘That is so rude, on many levels, and the worst thing is, Hannah Miller, you don’t see why, do you? Just go and see Sister Maria, for heaven’s sake. And Hannah.’ The cook took a deep breath. ‘Why not try doing something you aspire to, never bloody mind anyone else.’
Mrs Amos slammed the pastry she was making for the rabbit pies on to the marble slab. ‘Go now, out of my sight, and see Sister Maria.’
That afternoon she entered the annexe common room, where the residents sat in high armchairs, with shawls around their shoulders, and blankets over their knees. Sister Maria, in her habit as always, walked by her side. She led Hannah to the two ladies who had before rejected her help.
Sister Maria said, ‘Ah, ladies. I have a treat today. You will remember that I asked our dear Miss Miller to use her expertise to help you with your sketching and it didn’t go quite as well as I had planned. Well, we thought we would try again, and she has looked at your work and admires it enormously but has one or two ideas that will perhaps improve it.’
The women looked at one another, and then up at Hannah. One of the them said, ‘This is the girl to whom you said we had to give another chance?’ The old woman had short hair, a bit like a man’s, and large hands and feet. She wore old brogue shoes and heavily darned lisle stockings. Her voice was large too, and boomed across the room.
Sister Maria sighed, and smiled gently, but everything about the woman was gentle, thought Hannah, except for reminding her that she, Hannah Miller, was thought of as a Jerry-bag. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure I put it quite like that, Marjorie, but I certainly think that we can use Miss Miller’s skills, and be thankful for her willingness to use them on our behalf. I find it rather wonderful that she chops vegetables and carries trays, when she is in fact an artist, don’t you? She’s clearly not afraid of hard work, and doing what is necessary to earn a living in these parlous times.’
The other woman, Miss Helena Sinclair, put her hand on Marjorie’s arm. ‘Hush now, Marjorie. Whatever you were about to say, and say loudly, I for one think it is commendable, and we will not mention anything else about the choice of friends, will we, Marjorie.’ It was not a question. ‘Why not sit down, Miss Miller. Sister Maria says you have examined our sketches, so shall we get to work. Have you charcoal or should we use our own?’
Sister Maria gestured Hannah to the third chair, and left the common room, gliding as though on wheels, her habit swishing the floor. Marjorie Webster boomed, ‘No need for a brush to sweep our floors when we have our dear Sister Maria. So, young lady, tell us the worst. Will we eventually produce a masterpiece, or are we just dabblers, doomed to flounder in the deepest depths of mediocrity?’
Miss Sinclair smiled at Hannah. ‘Our dear Miss Webster taught Classics. She is burdened with a tendency to alliterate, for whatever reason. I blame the Greeks – so very wordy, one feels. But it does us good to think of the past, because when all is said and done, time passes, and people accept.’
She reached over and patted Hannah’s hand. ‘You must remember that, my dear.’
The two old women listened as Hannah explained the art of representing three-dimensional objects on a two-dimensional surface so as to give the right impression. She guided their hands and talked of Brunelleschi and found she could remember more than she thought from all that her art teacher had taught her. Miss Webster and Miss Sinclair’s cups of tea arrived at three, brought by Sylvia and Mrs Amos. The two elderly women sat back, their hands black from the charcoal, their cups and saucers in their hands, talking of a trip they had made to Italy when they were in their twenties.
Hannah didn’t mention that Italy was an ally of Germany, and no one brought up the fact that the Italians and Germans interned on the island at the start of the war had been released once the invasion occurred.
The two women split their biscuits in half, and hesitated, before each offering to share with Hannah. She accepted. Two halves made a whole, and she was young and needed it while they were so old they didn’t, so half each was enough for them. She saw the disappointment in their faces. Wel
l, if they hadn’t meant it, they shouldn’t have offered. Anyway, it was too late, she had fingered them now so she ate, and felt slightly sick. Well, it was probably the charcoal, or divine retribution, as Bee would say.
She stared out of the window at the tops of the leafless oak trees, which almost enclosed the nursing home from the rest of the world. All she could hear through the glass was the slight knocking of the panes in the wind. There were no bombs, no aeroplanes fighting, no ack-ack, as Bobby said the BBC reported was the fate of Britain. Thank heavens she had not returned.
When her shift ended, Hannah rolled up their sketches carefully. ‘Shall I take them home and note ways in which they could be improved?’
They smiled. Miss Sinclair said, ‘That would be most kind. Have you any Brunelleschi pictures we can copy, or perhaps Sister Maria has here?’
Miss Webster boomed, ‘That’ll be the thing. We’ll ask.’
Hannah headed for the door of the common room, and Miss Sinclair called after her, ‘We’re so sorry about your mother, Hannah.’
She stopped, sickness rolling over her again. Her mother. She tried not to even think about it. She headed for the door again. ‘Thank you,’ she called, without looking back.
She knocked on Sister Maria’s door.
‘Come in.’
She did, and stood just inside the doorway. ‘I think I helped.’
‘I’m so glad, Hannah.’
Hannah waited, then said, ‘Do I get the extra money you mentioned for doing this?’
Sister Maria’s smiled faltered. She said, ‘Perhaps we could say that today your payment was the biscuit you gained from two elderly patients, leaving them with only half each.’
Hannah rolled her eyes, then shrugged. ‘I’m going to be working on their work at home too, which I’ll bring back tomorrow. We can talk about the money later.’
She cycled home, the sketches in her bicycle basket, her scarf wrapped up around her throat. A patrol flagged her down. ‘You need your bicycle?’