Always in my Heart

by Pam Weaver

  As time went on, she caught snippets of the same conversation happening around the ward. ‘Looks like it’s really happening.’ ‘It’ll be finished by Christmas.’ ‘They say the call-up papers are already in the post.’ The nurses hadn’t said a word, but it looked as if the prophets of doom and gloom could be right. At three, someone put the ward radio on. After a few pips and squeaks, Neville Chamberlain’s voice filled the air with a repeat of the message he’d given the nation at eleven fifteen that morning.

  ‘This morning, the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us . . .’

  He said more, but the room had already fallen silent, each person lost in his or her thoughts. Thank God, Florrie told herself; thank God that Shirley and Tom were safe in the country. She offered up a prayer that whoever they were with would look after them. Tom wouldn’t understand, of course, but Shirley was a bright girl. She wished she could put her arms around them and tell them everything would be fine, but she couldn’t. Damn this disease, and damn Hitler and his cronies. At times like these, life seemed bloody unfair.

  On the first day of the weekend, Shirley and Tom had woken to the sound of the cock crowing. It was only just getting light, and Tom’s watch, lying on the chair between their beds, said it was only five fifteen.

  ‘Can we see the animals now, Shirl?’

  ‘Presently,’ Shirley said grudgingly. ‘It’s very early.’ Her heart was already sinking at the thought of staying in this awful place for a whole weekend before she could tell Miss Lloyd how they had all been taken in.

  Once again her brother’s voice came from the other side of the blanket wall. ‘Tell me the story, Shirl.’

  ‘Not now.’ She was in no mood for stories. As well as feeling cross, she was upset and homesick. A thought crossed her mind. What if she did complain? What would happen? She already knew there was no one else to take them in. They couldn’t send her back home, and Auntie Betty had already said she couldn’t manage the shop and looking after them. Auntie Doreen’s mother wouldn’t take them in, that was for sure. Mind you, she wouldn’t want to be with Mrs Kennedy. She was a mean-spirited old bag who made everybody’s life a misery, especially poor Auntie Doreen’s. Tom wouldn’t last five minutes with her.

  She heard footfall on the other side of the door and Mr Oliver called out, ‘Look lively in there. You can help us with the milking.’

  The blanket wall moved vigorously as Tom scrambled out of bed and into his clothes.

  ‘You need a wash first,’ said Shirley petulantly, but her brother was already leaving the room.

  It took Shirley a bit longer to get dressed. She used the scullery to wash. At least she was alone and undisturbed, but she only had freezing-cold water in the tap. By the time she found everybody, the job of milking was well under way. Mrs Oliver was showing Tom how to sponge the cow’s udders, and especially the teats, ready to milk.

  ‘Give the end of her tail a wash too, Tom,’ she said. ‘You don’t want her swishing it in your face.’

  Once the teats were clean, Mrs Oliver dried them with a towel, and with a clean bucket underneath, showed Tom how to get milk. Shirley was convinced he wouldn’t want to do it, but once he got going, Tom was a natural.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ said Mr Oliver suddenly at Shirley’s elbow. ‘Don’t stand there gawping at it. Get yourself an apron. You can do Buttercup.’ Shirley’s jaw dropped. The cow was huge, and frightening. Mr Oliver grabbed her by the arm and propelled her forward. ‘We ain’t got all day,’ he snapped.

  Reluctantly, Shirley put on a white apron and stood close to the waiting cow. Her rear and flanks were caked in dried-on poo, and her underparts looked as if she’d been wallowing in mud. Shirley was revolted. A rag was thrust into her hand and she was forced to wash the offending parts. Every now and then, Shirley retched and Buttercup turned her head to look at her.

  ‘We got another five to do after her,’ said Mr Oliver, settling down beside another cow. ‘Better get used to it, girl. We milks the cows twice a day.’

  Trying not to cry, Shirley did her best, but she already hated every disgusting, smelly minute of it.

  There were two rows of cows back to back. The space between them was narrow, and the straw was already sodden with excrement. Shirley had to be careful to avoid a cow relieving itself as she walked by. It took her a while to master the firm hold on the teat, and the fact that she had to keep going until the udder was flabby, so she only managed one and a half cows to Tom’s three. The milk was strained over muslin and then taken to a clean room, where it was poured into churns. When all the churns were ready, Mr Oliver took Tom to the stables. A few minutes later, the two of them were loading churns onto a cart to take down to the Arundel Road, where the Milk Marketing Board lorry would collect them and take them to the dairy.

  While they were doing that, Mrs Oliver showed Shirley how to make butter. By the time they’d finished, Shirley was starving. They ate a hearty breakfast and then Mr Oliver wanted them to do more chores. Tom was quite happy, but Shirley was getting crosser and crosser.

  ‘I could do with some help in the house,’ said Mrs Oliver.

  Her husband harrumphed but left them to it.

  ‘You didn’t enjoy that, did you?’ said Mrs Oliver when they’d gone.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Shirley indignantly. ‘And he has no right to demand that we work our socks off. We may be fifteen, but we’re still schoolchildren.’

  Mrs Oliver smiled and said nothing. Shirley suddenly felt ashamed of her rudeness. Her mother wouldn’t have wanted her to be so cheeky to an adult, even if she was only a couple of years older than herself. It beggared belief that an attractive young woman like her was married to such a surly old man.

  ‘I could say you’ll get used to it,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but I get the feeling you won’t. Perhaps you’d prefer the cleaner chores. Making the butter wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘No,’ Shirley agreed, but she was cautious. What was being cooked up for her now? They were cleaning and dusting in the sitting room. Everywhere smelled of ‘farm’, and the room was cluttered up with old newspapers and beer bottles. Shirley wondered how long it had been since Mrs Oliver had tidied.

  ‘I think we could be friends,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘My name is Janet.’ She held out her hand and Shirley shook it. ‘I have to say I’m glad you’re here. It can be a lonely life on a farm.’

  The day wore on. Shirley helped in the house for a bit, but then she told Janet she wanted to walk to the village. She had it in mind that she might bump into Miss Lloyd, and if she did, she might persuade her to find other accommodation.

  ‘You’d better be back by four,’ Janet cautioned. ‘He’ll want you here for the milking.’

  Shirley shuddered. Mrs Oliver gave her some packs of butter for the village shop and asked her to buy a few much-needed groceries.

  She found the shop quite easily, and the people were very friendly, but Shirley was out of luck as far as bumping into Miss Lloyd, or anyone else for that matter. There were a few children about, but no sign of Miss Lloyd. She posted a card to her mother, resisting the desire to put masses of kisses all over it. Her mother would only worry, and that might slow down her recovery.

  Dear Mum,

  We are on a farm. Mr Oliver made us do the milking today. Tom enjoyed it very much. I didn’t, but Mrs Oliver is quite nice. Hope you are feeling better.

  Love,

  Shirley and Tom xx

  Shirley had made up her mind to stick it out for a bit if she had to, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being here any longer than was absolutely necessary.

  Sunday was much the same as Saturday had been, except that Mrs Oliver gave her the butter pat and left her to it. She spent the rest of morning in the small orchard at the back of the farmhouse picking plums with Janet. />
  ‘I shall bottle them,’ Janet told her.

  ‘I’ve never done that,’ Shirley admitted.

  ‘I’ve never done it before either,’ said Janet. ‘It’ll be a voyage of discovery for both of us.’

  Shirley frowned to herself. Janet made it sound as if she wasn’t a country girl either.

  Mid-morning, they took their plums back to the house, and Janet put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Tom was out on the field with Mr Oliver and the horse and cart.

  ‘They’re lifting the spuds,’ said Janet, switching on the wireless on the dresser. ‘Gil won’t bother to come back until lunchtime. I’ll take a flask out to them.’

  Shirley sat at the kitchen table with an old Picture Post magazine belonging to Janet. She lingered over the beautiful dresses worn by Joan Greenwood and Margaret Lockwood. She felt another sensation too. Her heart gave a little flutter when she saw Hugh Sinclair dressed in his Musketeer costume for his latest film. What she wouldn’t give for someone like him to come and rescue her.

  At eleven fifteen, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain came on the radio. Shirley would have preferred to enjoy the music that had been on before. With a bored sigh, she resigned herself to wait until he’d finished. She was only half listening as she turned the pages of the magazine. Mr Chamberlain droned on and on, but all at once she heard him say, ‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’

  War. Everybody had talked about it for ages, but what exactly did it mean? She knew her parents and their friends had lived through the Great War, but nobody talked about it much. Was Hitler going to come here? She could almost hear the German troops marching up to the farmhouse door. She didn’t want to die. Her heart was beginning to thump. What was she going to do? Supposing she never saw her mother again? The prime minister was still speaking. Shirley forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things we shall be fighting against: brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution.’ Shirley’s hand was shaking so much her tea spilled into her saucer. All that gas-mask practice and talk of air-raid shelters was a reality now. ‘And against them,’ Mr Chamberlain continued, ‘I am certain that the right will prevail.’

  As the wireless programme of music continued, she thought of her mother and remembered something she had said. ‘If we go to war, we may all have to put up with a lot of things we don’t like until it’s over.’

  Shirley took a deep breath. It was time to grow up. She’d been saying all week that she wasn’t a child any more. What had happened to her and Tom was unfair, and it wasn’t right, but she had a roof over her head and a full stomach. It dawned on her that some of the lads she’d grown up with, especially the older ones, would be signing up before long. They’d be marching off to battlefields and God knows what, risking their lives for king and country. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. The country was at war.

  CHAPTER 7

  Florrie was taken in the wooden wheelchair to the treatment room, where Dr Scott, the man who had come to her house, was waiting for her. She had been examined several times that week, and she’d had another X-ray. Each morning, she’d spat into a small container, which was taken for testing. As she came into the room, Dr Scott was holding an X-ray film up to the light and studying it carefully. It didn’t mean a whole lot to Florrie, but she could see that whereas the majority of her lungs were dark, there was a light area at the top of her right lung.

  ‘Right, Florrie,’ he said, turning his attention to her, ‘here’s what we’ll do.’

  Over the past week, the formality of being called ‘Mrs Jenkins’ every time she had treatments had slowly been dropped. She was still treated with respect, and everyone was kind, but she was being made to feel more at home. She had made friends with quite a few of the women in the ward, who were all at different stages of recovery. Pauline had only just come out of an iron lung, while Florrie’s nearest neighbour, Edna, was about to be discharged.

  ‘I think it best if we perform an artificial pneumothorax of your right lung.’

  Florrie stared unblinking at the doctor. Artificial pneumo . . . What on earth was that?

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘I already explained it to you, remember? We collapse the lung for a period of time so that it can rest. It gives the organ a chance to heal a lot more quickly if it doesn’t have to work at the same time.’

  Oh yes, now she understood. ‘Will it hurt?’ Florrie asked. She was aware that her voice had become very small.

  ‘Surprisingly,’ said Dr Scott, ‘my patients tell me they hardly notice the difference. You will have to continue with complete bed rest, of course, but once we’ve done it, we shall wait to see what happens.’

  ‘How will you know if it’s worked?’

  ‘We’ll give you another X-ray in two or three months’ time.’

  Florrie was beginning to get used to the idea of long timescales. The thought of two or three months of inactivity didn’t appal her as much as it had done when she’d first arrived. ‘When do you want to do it?’

  Dr Scott pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. ‘There’s no time like the present,’ he smiled.

  The nurse wheeled Florrie next door into a small treatment room and she took off her nightdress. She was asked to lie on the bed. ‘Lie on your left side with your right arm draped over the top of your head and dangling over the edge,’ said the nurse.

  While she was doing this, the doctor and the nurse were washing their hands. The nurse laid a white cloth over Florrie’s side, and the doctor painted her skin using a piece of white muslin soaked in something so cold it made Florrie shiver.

  ‘I must ask you to keep very still,’ he said. ‘This is a local anaesthetic. I am going to put a needle into your chest and then we shall push some air into the area between your chest wall and your lung.’

  It sounded terrifying, but Florrie was surprised that she only felt a slight tugging sensation. The procedure didn’t take very long, and once it was done, apart from a ‘heavy’ sensation in her chest, it didn’t bother her at all. She dressed herself and sat back in the wooden chair.

  ‘Florrie,’ said Dr Scott, ‘are you good at writing?’

  Florrie raised an eyebrow. ‘Writing? Well, I can write, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Would you be amenable to keeping a journal of your experiences? We are looking for patients who will express their feelings on the page,’ he went on. ‘It doesn’t have to be brilliant, but we would like a week-by-week account of how it feels to be a TB patient.’

  ‘May I ask why you need it?’

  ‘We treat the symptoms,’ he said, ‘but you are the one having the experience. We think if we understand a patient’s struggles, we will be better able to help them.’

  Florrie smiled. ‘In that case, I’d be honoured.’

  ‘I must be honest,’ said Dr Scott. ‘We are not looking for romance, but for you to tell it as it is.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Florrie. ‘Yes, I’ll do it.’

  He gave her a little leather-bound book and a pencil. ‘I shall look forward to reading your account,’ he said.

  Back on the ward, her fellow patients greeted her like a conquering hero. ‘Here she comes!’

  ‘Hello, soldier. Had your wings clipped, then?’

  ‘No blowing your own trumpet, now, Florrie.’

  Resting in her bed, although she knew she faced two or three months before she went back to see Dr Scott, she felt strangely encouraged. At last she was taking positive steps to battle this dreadful disease.

  There was a postcard on her dresser. She recognized the picture on the front straight away. It was one of the postcards she’d given Shirley. She ran her finger lovingly over the handwriting and looked for kisses. Two. Shirley and Tom must be all right, then. Her daughter hadn’t said much, and foolishly
she’d forgotten to put her address on the card, so Florrie couldn’t reply, but surely that had to mean she was happy. What a relief.

  As usual, the school week began on a Monday. Shirley and Tom set off in good time to walk into the village. Tom had already been up for ages. He’d done the milking, while Janet left Shirley to set the table, prepare breakfast and get the vegetables ready for tea. Mr Oliver grumbled quite a lot when the suggestion was mooted, but she heard Janet whisper, ‘You like the boy, don’t you? If she complains, the authorities might come and take them both away,’ and so Shirley was allowed to stay out of the milking parlour.

  It took half an hour to do the walk on that first day but only twenty minutes once they’d got used to it. Janet had drawn a map for Shirley, which turned out to be easy to follow. They began by walking through the little hamlet of Swillage and down Dappers Lane. There were only a few dwellings scattered along the route. Most of the surrounding area was farmland. After passing some allotments on Water Lane, they came to the village itself. It had two public houses – the Lamb Inn on the right and the smaller Red Lion at the bottom of the hill to the left – two grocery shops, a fish-and-chip shop, a baker’s and the war memorial in a triangle of grass in the middle. They turned right and found themselves with St Margaret’s Church to the left and Older’s School, their new school, on the right. On their first day, several children were already in the playground and Shirley recognized three girls from Hallsville.

  ‘What’s your place like?’ Hazel Freeman asked. ‘I’m staying in that shop across the road. It’s lovely. I’ve got a bed to meself, and yesterday we went to the seaside.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Gwen Knox said dismally. ‘I’m staying with two old fogeys. They must be a hundred years old and all they want to do are jigsaw puzzles and singing round the piano.’

  ‘Sounds all right to me,’ said Bobbi Mackenzie. Her proper name was Roberta, but everybody called her Bobbi.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Gwen grudgingly. ‘They say I’ve got a nice voice. What about you, Shirley?’