Doreen. Did her family know? Would she get a proper burial? Caroline couldn’t find the words to ask. Why had they come here? It would be better not to know, to imagine that Doreen had just gone home, fed up of the place.
‘I want you girls to promise me that you will not speak about this to anyone else. It is a tragic thing and it would never have happened if Doreen had remembered the importance of staying pure. You give me your word?’
They both did. Victoria’s voice shaky with emotion.
Caroline dreamt of Doreen that night. Doreen lay in her arms singing, a lovely ballad. She was wrapped in a shawl, sticky and dark with blood.
‘Nurse!’ The cry was like a bleat. The young man in the end bed. He’d been brought in that afternoon, his leg crushed by a forklift truck. He’d been in the Army doing National Service for the last eighteen months. A year younger and this would never have happened to him. They’d abolished it now. He’d been in the last batch, called up in 1960. She took a look at him, his lips taut with pain, tongue gripped between his teeth. Pearls of sweat sprinkled on his forehead.
‘I’ll get Sister.’ She hurried to the nurse’s station and alerted Sister Colne, who administered more medicine.
‘Sit with him a while,’ she told Caroline. ‘He’s spiking a temp so keep him cool and he can drink if he’s thirsty.’
Caroline took the cloth from his brow, dipped it in cold water, wrung it out and replaced it. He was hovering between sleep and waking, his eyelids fluttering up and down, his mouth working occasionally but no speech. The drugs would make him woozy. There was a rank smell from him, sour and unwashed. He wouldn’t be bathed until the doctors examined him again in the morning.
It was warm on the ward and quiet now save for the snoring from someone at the far end and an occasional murmur from the depths of a dream.
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, felt herself settle in the chair. Her head was heavy and she felt sleep steal over her like a cloak, creeping up her spine and over her skull, enveloping her shoulders. When she jerked awake some time later he was looking at her, his eyes made dreamy by the medicine.
‘Hello,’ he said.
She smiled.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Caroline.’
‘Paul.’
‘The pain, has it helped?’
‘Yeah. Where are you from, Caroline? That’s not a Manchester accent.’
‘Bolton,’ she said.
‘Ah, Bolton,’ he mimicked her.
She smiled even though having the mickey taken was not particularly amusing.
‘Get that a lot?’ He surprised her.
She nodded. His hair was cut close, for the services of course. He had a strong face. She could imagine him as a man of action, no nonsense.
‘This leg, what'll they do? Nobody’s saying anything. Will they . . . ?’ He faltered, looked away then back, his Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Can they save it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It's only if there’s gangrene or complications.’
Relief shone damp in his eyes. Light-blue eyes. She saw his chest fall as he exhaled.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The operation?’
Oh, you poor man. ‘They’ll put a pin in, a metal rod, where the bones are shattered. You’ll have a lump, scars.’
‘And a stick? Charlie Chaplin. No more drill, then.’ He spoke in a rush. Then gave a little hiccup. ‘Sorry.’
Mortified, Caroline realised he was crying. She wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. ‘Don’t worry, please,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’
He nodded.
She drew the curtains round so, although the light sleepers might hear the broken breathing coming from the cubicle, no one would have to witness him losing control.
His plaster cast was off and his leg looked sick beneath it, the skin like uncooked fish, greyish-white and damp. A smell too, cheesy. The skin had healed in puckered lumps along the outside muscle and across the knee. As if a child had started to model a leg from white plasticine and left it rough and unfinished. She betrayed no reaction as she wiped it gently with clean water and antiseptic and began to prepare the bandages.
She was fed up, another black mood, a miserable day. Most days were. A knot of resentment inside. She felt hot tears pressing behind her eyes. No reason for them. No reason for any of it. She stirred more plaster of paris into the mix.
‘Are you courting?’ he said.
She looked sharply at him, two spots of red forming on her cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ he amended quickly. He watched her work, sneaking a look at her face now and then, large brown eyes, broad cheeks, her hair pulled back under the nurses hat. ‘What would you do if you weren’t a nurse?’
She shrugged. She didn’t want to chat.
‘What about when you were little then . . .’
Why wouldn’t he just give up and shut up?
‘. . . what did you want to be? I suppose it’s different for girls – you don’t have to be anything much once you get married – but boys it’s always engine drivers and pilots and footballers. Or soldiers.’
No more drill parade.
‘Farming,’ she said.
‘That’s a hard life for a woman.’
Try this.
‘What sort of farming?’
She thought of the ewe and of sick people, sick animals, mess. Grandma’s allotment. ‘Crops,’ she said. ‘Market gardening, a nursery.’
He raised his eyebrows.
And landscape gardening too. The chance to sculpt the earth, to plant it and make beautiful vistas, like they did in the grand old houses. Not the sort of thing a nurse from Bolton could aspire to.
She started to wind the bandages, feeling the plaster wet and cold and heavy on her hands. She wished he wouldn’t stare at her so much.
He had several weeks of physiotherapy. He was moved out of the men’s surgical ward. Caroline missed his company and felt a ripple of embarrassment when she realised she was manufacturing reasons to run errands to the convalescent ward. Then one day he came looking for her, using a stick now not crutches, with a rolling gait so he appeared to travel as far sideways as he did forward.
She turned from the cupboard she was stacking to greet him. They were the same height, she was pleased he wasn’t taller. But why did it matter?
‘You’re doing well.’
He nodded. ‘Discharge next week. Back home.’ His family lived up in Yorkshire.
A crush of disappointment pressed on her heart. Silly, she thought.
‘I wondered, your day off, perhaps we could have tea?’
‘Yes,’ she said quickly, then, ‘Will they let you out?’
‘Occupational therapy. Got to try getting on a bus tomorrow.’ He tipped his head at the stick. There was a familiar trace of bitterness in his voice. She recognised it as a shield against self-pity.
Tea was a delight. He talked more than ever; about his army days, the boys in his regiment and his family. He asked after hers. She told him a little but threw questions back.
He reached out to touch her hand, his skin warm and dry against hers. She let his palm cover the back of her hand, a falling feeling inside her, like Alice in the rabbit hole.
‘Caroline . . .’ He licked his lips. She watched his mouth form different shapes as he chased words. ‘Can I write?’ He managed. ‘Do you think, perhaps?’
Oh, Paul, yes. But if he knew. He thought she was young and innocent but she was spoilt. It just wouldn’t be fair to him. He was a good man. She pulled her hand back. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
His head reared slightly at the rejection and he ran his fingers along his jaw. ‘I see.’
On the walk back to the hospital their conversation was strained and awkward. She felt the numb weight of depression settle on her. It would always be like this, it would never change.
And Paul had similar thoughts, cursing himself for being a fool. He should have known better than to e
xpect her to take on a cripple. He should never have asked. What girl in her right mind would look at him twice? Yes, she’d been friendly and kind but that was her job. That was all. He must have been cracked to think there was anything more.
Kay
Kay Farrell was astonished at how much work one tiny infant generated. It wasn’t just feeding and changing her, it was everything in-between too. Sterilising all the bottles and teats, sluicing and soaking and washing and drying the nappies, washing and drying and ironing the clothes. The daily walk, the bath. Life had been full before – keeping the house and garden in order, shopping and cooking and cleaning – but now it was hard to fit everything in. The windows were overdue for a clean, the pile of mending was becoming overwhelming. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter but it bothered her. Other women managed, why couldn’t she? Was she doing something wrong?
She was tired too. Often numb by the end of the day when Adam came home expecting a decent two-course meal and home comforts. She had been going to bed earlier and earlier but Theresa needed a feed at eleven. Her friends with children raved about how easy Theresa was. Sleeping through the night, keeping her feeds down, easily placated when she cried. When they said that, Kay found it impossible to complain. After all she wasn’t being dragged out of bed three times a night or struggling with three-month colic. But one day she did confide in her neighbour, Joanna, who was more outspoken than some of the others and had a devilish sense of humour.
‘Bugger housework,’ Joanna said.
‘Joanna!’ Kay snorted with laughter.
‘Oh, come on. Does Adam notice?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘But he notices you’re tired? Headaches at bedtime?’
It took Kay a moment to grasp the reference. ‘Joanna!’ she scolded her.
‘Look, Kay, you can have an ideal home and battle on exhausted with a neglected husband or you can give yourself a chance and make things a bit easier so you’re fit company and you can enjoy Theresa.’
‘I do enjoy Theresa,’ she said defensively. Remembering the previous afternoon when Theresa had woken early from her nap and Kay had almost cried with frustration. ‘You’ve no idea,’ she carried on. ‘It’s wonderful. For heaven’s sake, Joanna, I only said I was a bit tired.’
‘Don’t be so touchy.’
‘Everyone else manages.’
‘Like who? Here, have another biscuit.’
She took one, bit into it and considered. ‘Violet.’
‘She’s got a cleaning woman.’
‘OK, well, Muriel.’
‘Her mother’s practically living there, she does half the housework.’
‘Ann-Marie.’
‘Drinks.’
‘What?’
‘On the bottle.’
Kay’s mouth fell open. ‘Seriously?’
‘Oh, Kay, you’re so naive.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You can smell it. She’s always sucking mints.’
‘Maybe she likes mints.’
‘And she fell over at our cheese and wine. Jerry had to take her home.’
‘Oh, how awful. But in the day, she drinks?’
‘Yes, Kay.’ Joanna nodded her head slowly for emphasis. ‘Soon as Jerry’s left for work.’
‘Crikey! Do you think we should do something?’
Joanna laughed. ‘Such as? And Carol and Angela are both on pep pills. You could try those. Pep you up a bit. Doctor will sort you out.’
Kay pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. What about Bev? She looks great. Two children, house is always nice. She reminds me a bit of Sophia Loren, those sort of eyes. She’s managing all right. She never looks like it’s all too much.’
Kay finished her biscuit and waited for her friend to shoot her down. But Joanna had a funny expression on her face. One that Kay couldn’t decipher. Joanna looked away.
‘What?’ Kay said. ‘What’s wrong with Bev?’
‘She’s having an affair with Ken,’ Joanna said sharply and picked up her cigarettes.
‘Oh, my God! Joanna . . . oh!’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh, Joanna. And here’s me moaning on . . .’ She drew out her own packet and lit a cigarette.
‘Don’t tell anyone.’
‘No, of course not. When did . . . do they know you . . . ?’
Joanna screwed her eyes up against the smoke and shook her head.
‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to sue the bugger for divorce but I need some advice. And there’s Damien to think about. It’d mean selling the house and I don’t know how I’d manage. My typing’s rusty and even if I went back to work who’d look after Damien? It’s a bloody awful mess.’
‘Wouldn’t you get maintenance?’
‘No idea. Oh, Kay, it’s so horrible. I don’t want to think about it.’
A rising cry from Theresa in her pram outside interrupted them. Kay went to fetch her in for a feed. Shortly after, the fish van arrived in the road – it was Friday – and both women went to buy fish for that evening’s meal.
Joanna’s revelation haunted Kay. It had been even worse because, having told her about it, Joanna hadn’t wanted to say more and Kay found herself imagining the countless ways Joanna might have found out. How would she face Bev or Ken again? How did Joanna do it? If Adam ever . . . the thought chilled her to the bone. Was she neglecting him? If she was, surely he could understand, she’d such a lot on her plate. Had Joanna told her as some sort of warning?
That night when they were going to bed she broached the topic of a cleaner with him. ‘A few hours a week.’
‘Do we need one?’ He sounded surprised.
‘It would be a real help and I don’t think it would set us back so very much. Violet has one. I could see what she pays, if she’s reliable.’
He shifted in bed. Ran his hand up her thigh, pushing back the nylon nightie. Kay was tired. Her period was due and she felt grouchy but she didn’t want to upset him. He murmured something.
‘Is that a yes?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he replied. He slid his hand between her legs. ‘Come here.’
Caroline
Dear Caroline,
I hope you don’t mind me writing but I am having to come back to the hospital for a check up on September seventh and I wonder if we might meet up? What shift will you be on?
Life here is very quiet, though I sometimes go into Keighley to the pictures.
Hope you are well.
Yours sincerely,
Paul
She reread the letter, a bubble of excitement rising inside her. Two weeks away. She could swap her day off. She’d get her hair done. Don’t, she admonished herself. He’s a friend, that’s all. I can’t lead him on. But I wouldn’t. Just company. It needn’t mean anything else. She replied by return of post, arranging to meet him after his appointment.
She had her hair cut to shoulder length and bought some setting lotion and jumbo rollers so she could make it flick out at the ends. It made her feel grown up.
He looked well when he arrived, face and arms brown from the weather, prompting her to ask if he’d been working outside.
‘Not working, studying. Balance isn’t good enough to work – fall over all the time like some old duffer. Scares the sheep.’ He gave a wry smile. He was more handsome than she remembered. Not film-star looks but nice. A lazy slant to his eyes like Dean Martin’s, his eyes were even bluer against his tan. His hair was longer, floppy at the front, a dark-blond colour. The sun had brought out the light parts of it.
‘I’ll tell you about it. But we’d better get going, it starts in quarter of an hour.’
They watched the new Alfred Hitchcock film, The Birds. It was very scary and Caroline hid her face and gripped Paul’s arm when it got really frightening. At least it wasn’t a weepy. She had bought herself a block of mascara and some lipstick. Putting the mascara on had been a nightmare. Spitting on the little block then working up a paste then t
rying to get the stuff on her lashes with the little rectangular brush. So there was no way she wanted to see it all dribble down her face.
There was a coffee bar opposite the Odeon and they went there after. She got the drinks, realising it would be hard for Paul to manage with his stick.
‘How’s the hospital?’
‘Same as ever.’ She was sick of it, if the truth be told. The endless grind of dirty dressings and bedpans, the smell of sick bodies and pain and fear. Some days when it was time to get up she lay there and wished she could sleep forever. Once a month she made the trip home and there would be red salmon sandwiches and Victoria sponge and she’d get an hour or two up on the hills. She would go to Grandma’s grave most times and say hello and wonder whether life would have felt any brighter with Grandma still in it. And she would climb up to a vantage point, to Little Craven or Goat’s Head, and sit and let her eyes roam and let everything ebb away, all the feelings and the pictures and the words, let them empty from her, seeping into the earth like dew. Leaving her cleansed and grounded. Just bone and breath.
The city was choking her. Sometimes she felt like a mole, especially doing nightshifts – living underground, never coming up for air. Some of the other girls had got married and given up work. Married women weren’t allowed to nurse. But Caroline could see no end to it. She couldn’t go back and live at home again, the presence of her parents too much like a reproach. And what would she do all day?
She dropped two sugar cubes in her coffee and stirred.
‘You look tired,’ Paul said.
She concentrated on the spoon, the circles in the froth. She didn’t want his pity. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Don’t.’
She saw his jaw tighten.
‘So what’s this studying?’
‘Business. How to keep accounts, import and export, trading law, stock-taking. Correspondence course. I’ve picked quite a lot up.’
He missed me. She tried to concentrate on the conversation. ‘You’re thinking of setting up in business?’
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