Ambulance Girls

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘But you had servants?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her tone was offhand. ‘Nine servants inside. Butler, housekeeper, two pantry, three kitchen, two upstairs. But the staff were my friends. They never told on me to my parents, no matter what mischief I got up to as a child. The servants were more like family than my parents in many ways.’

  I raised an eyebrow and she smiled.

  ‘Helen, my brother John and I lived a life entirely separate from our parents when we were children. They were away nearly every weekend in summer and went off shooting in winter. When they were at home we’d only see them for formal half-hour visits after tea. Which I used to hate.’

  ‘Hate seeing your parents?’ I must have sounded scandalised, because she threw back her head and gave a gurgle of laughter.

  ‘Well, I was only allowed into the drawing room once I’d been primped and starched and brushed and combed to within an inch of my life by Nanny, which was ghastly for a tomboy like me. I had to be shoved through the drawing room door, as I never really wanted to go in. The grown-ups would usually be playing bridge or mah-jong or discussing grown-up things and it was terrifically boring, as I was supposed to simply sit quietly and look decorative. I was so terrified of my father that I never said a word. It was easier for Helen, who was five years older and Father’s favourite. And for John, who spent most of his time at school.’

  ‘It’s not at all as I imagined your childhood to be,’ I admitted. Talking to her was also not at all as I’d imagined. She was far warmer and more open than I’d supposed.

  ‘How did you envision it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Lots of toys and pretty clothes, ponies and governesses, or a posh boarding school.’

  ‘Helen and I weren’t allowed to go to school, although I’d have given anything to do so. I so envied my brother, John, who regularly swanned off to Eton. My father thought girls’ schools were frightfully common, and couldn’t see the need for paying anything much to educate girls. He insisted only that we should be able to write in a fair hand, be fluent in French and able to dance properly. So we had a succession of poorly educated governesses who tried to instil some modicum of learning in us and we went to dancing classes once a week.’

  I thought of my happy childhood, with my close and loving parents. And although I’d not enjoyed my boarding school experience, the teachers had been excellent and had instilled in me a love of learning.

  Celia was smiling. ‘I suppose you’re feeling sorry for me, having had a delightful childhood, out there in the colonies.’

  ‘Actually – I did have a wonderful childhood.’

  ‘Mine wasn’t too bad, you know. Nobody really bothered about me and I ran wild in the countryside most of the time. Wish I was there now. London isn’t really my cup of tea at all.’

  ‘Because of the Blitz?’

  ‘Oh, the Blitz isn’t the problem. As I said, I quite like being out in the mayhem. It’s the frivolous life my set insist upon leading. It bores me to death.’

  Celia gave me her crooked grin and I wondered if we might become friends. Then I remembered her fascist husband and decided I would not rush into friendship. I would see where the wind took us.

  Towards the end of our shift we were sent to an incident in one of the winding little streets near the British Museum, just behind New Oxford Street. The planes were still overhead, but they were dropping their bombs a mile or so away and we felt safe enough.

  It was a major incident and the teams attending it were well-organised. By the time we arrived, light rescue had got out all the wounded they could find and the mobile first aid crew were sorting them into groups: those who should go by ambulance, those who would be transported by car, and those who could be sent off without the need for further treatment. A refreshment van was at the scene, handing out cups of tea. I took one, grimaced at the taste of chlorinated water and looked up to see an Aussie digger.

  Standing near the Mobile First Aid post was an Australian soldier, a corporal, in a khaki uniform that was coated in plaster dust. He was watching another Australian soldier, a private, being patched up by the nurse. He was not the first digger I’d seen in London, as they came here for R & R and usually ended up in Australia House. But I’d never seen one at an incident before.

  I walked over to him. ‘G’day dig,’ I said.

  His face was a mess of blood and white dust, which made his wide grin seem rather surreal.

  ‘An Aussie girl?’ He called out to his mate. ‘There’s an Aussie sheila here.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘G’day yerself. Where’re you from?’

  It was always the first question when two Australians met. I assumed it was the same with all nationalities when they come together in a strange land.

  ‘Kalgoorlie, then Perth. What about you?’

  ‘Melbourne, Elwood. Jack Wallace.’ He nodded towards his mate. ‘Charlie’s a Queenslander, from Toowoomba. Charlie Proctor.’

  ‘How did you get involved in this?’ I waved at the destruction around me.

  Leaning against what remained of the wall behind him, he rolled a cigarette one-handed and squinted at me. Plaster dust coated his eyelashes, like white mascara.

  ‘Well, it’s like this. Me and Charlie are here on leave.’ He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, oblivious or indifferent to the possibility of a gas leak. ‘We’d just had some tucker and were heading back to our lodgings. Next thing we knew, hell seemed to be coming down in lumps. So we thought we’d lend a hand.’

  ‘Good on you, how was it?’

  He shook his head. ‘There was a terrace of houses there and I saw it vanish. It just lifted at the roots, rose up in the air and fell flat.’ He took another deep drag. ‘You know, that building,’ he waved his cigarette at a pile of rubble behind me, ‘isn’t where the bomb hit. I think it was simply cracked to pieces by the force of the explosion nearby.’

  ‘All these buildings are so old that the floor shakes when you sneeze.’

  ‘I could hear a girl in there, crying, hysterical. So we ran inside. She said she couldn’t move. Charlie took hold of her shoulders and I lifted her feet. Just then the staircase fell in, but we all made it out in one piece and we got the girl to a shelter. I think she was just paralysed with shock. Charlie hurt his arm – that’s why he’s over there – and my foot got bruised a bit.’ When I made a move to look at it he waved me away. ‘No fear. She’ll be right.’

  He took another drag and threw the cigarette on the ground; when he stamped it out under his boot he winced a little. Then he gave me a wide smile. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for quids.’

  Celia’s voice came out of the gloom. ‘Are you quite ready, Brennan? We should be off.’

  After we had delivered our patients to hospital we headed back to Woburn Place. I was quiet in the ambulance, thinking how much I had enjoyed meeting another Aussie and hearing the lingo, as Levy put it. Levy would have loved to meet Jack.

  ‘What’s up, Brennan? You seem down in the dumps.’

  I laughed a little, embarrassed. ‘There was an Australian soldier back there. He and his mate had helped to get people out of the ruins.’

  ‘Why would that make you sad? Are you homesick?’

  ‘No. Not really. A little, maybe. It’s just that Levy liked it when I used the Aussie slang. He would have enjoyed meeting the man.’

  She was quiet for a while. The Monster kept on rattling along the deserted, bomb-blasted streets. It was a misty morning and although the world was lightening around us it was difficult to see my way. I was completely reliant on Celia for navigation.

  ‘You were very close to Levy, weren’t you?’ Her voice was so soft I could hardly hear her over the noise of the engine.

  ‘Yes, I was. But no matter what people say, I was never in love with him. We were mates – in the Australian sense of the word, which is something more than friends. It means someone you’d risk anything for and who’d do the same for you.’

  ‘I heard there’s to be a
memorial service for him.’

  ‘That’s right. At the Hallam Street Synagogue, next Friday.’

  I watched swirls of white mist squirming in front of the narrow beam of headlight, and I thought what a terrible situation it was for his parents.

  ‘Mrs Levy is positive he’s out there,’ I said. ‘She thinks he’s waiting to be found. It’s so sad. Mr and Mrs Levy are such lovely people . . .’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  Her tone was cool and mocking and hot anger flooded through me. I wrenched the wheel to the left and parked by the roadside. When I turned towards her I almost spat out the words.

  ‘How can you, Ashwin? How can you be such a – a bitch?’ I shook my head, unable to believe her crass stupidity. ‘Of course the Levys are lovely people. Levy was a lovely man and they are his parents. More than that, I’ve met them and they are – are . . .’ I couldn’t think of another word to describe them. ‘They are lovely. I know you lot don’t see Jews as human beings—’

  Celia visibly flinched, which surprised me so much that I shut up. I could make out her face, despite the gloom. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said, in a tightly controlled voice. ‘I’m sure that the Levys are very nice people, and I’m well aware that Jews are human beings. That is not what I meant at all.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘God, Brennan, do you honestly think I’m that bad?’

  She looked at me then, held my gaze.

  ‘No,’ I admitted, remembering how she had spoken in Levy’s defence in the common room. ‘I don’t think you are that bad. I’m sorry if I misunderstood. What did you mean?’

  ‘What I meant was, what do you mean about Mrs Levy thinking that he is waiting to be found. Doesn’t she accept that he is dead?’

  ‘She accepts that he’s dead, but she’s convinced herself that David is out there, dead, calling to her to find his body. It’s so sad.’

  ‘David?’ Celia’s voice was shaky.

  ‘Didn’t you know? His name was David.’

  She shook her head, recovered her poise. ‘Of course I knew. It sounded odd to hear you say it. What a horrible story, but I suppose a mother might have such morbid fancies.’

  ‘That’s why they’re holding a memorial service for him. Halliday and Squire are going.’

  ‘Is everyone at the station invited?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not surprised Halliday would want to be there,’ she said. ‘She adored . . . David. Moray may feel it’s his duty as station officer as well. Oh, I don’t know, Brennan. We all worked closely with him. Wouldn’t it be the proper thing to go to his memorial service?’

  ‘The Levys told me that all would be welcome.’

  I turned into the Euston Road. It was still not properly light, and the mist was rapidly becoming fog so I was finding driving difficult.

  When Celia spoke again her voice was surprisingly hesitant. ‘Levy’s father is in finance, isn’t he?’

  I frowned at the windscreen. ‘You’re not going to go on about the Jewish conspiracy, are you?’

  ‘Have you ever heard me do so?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted, ‘but your hus—’

  ‘I’m not Cedric. I do not believe that Mr Levy is plotting world domination. I simply asked a question.’ Her voice was as sharp, clear and cold as an icicle. Celia was formidable in this sort of mood and I decided to placate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘that was wrong of me to assume. Yes. He’s in finance, and apparently his opinion is highly regarded. Jim tells me he has been advising the government. Mrs Levy is involved in supporting Jewish refugees from Nazi-occupied Europe, especially the children – what do they call it? The Kindertransport.’

  ‘Bloomsbury House?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. She’s a—’

  ‘Quite. A lovely woman. You said so before.’

  Her ice cube voice indicated to me that she was still seething, so I shut up. We arrived back at Woburn Place as the All Clear sounded, a little before seven o’clock.

  ‘You and Jim Vassilikov have been seeing rather a lot of each other,’ Celia remarked, as we scrubbed the Monster clean.

  ‘We’ve been to a couple of concerts and out to dinner a few times.’

  She dipped a rag into the soapy water and scrubbed the bonnet. ‘I know you won’t like me saying this, and please don’t think that I’m prying or trying to make trouble for you, but I think it would be as well if you didn’t become too serious about Jim Vassilikov.’

  My jaw tightened. ‘I’m afraid I do think that you are prying and I’d rather not discuss it.’

  ‘I’m only saying that England is not like Australia. These sort of things can end in misery.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘It’s easy to – to become attached to someone as personable as Jim. But, honestly Lily, you must see that there can be no future with him. You are too different.’

  I was so angry I could not reply and we finished cleaning the ambulance in silence. While I had my own reservations about the differences between Jim and me, I would not be dictated to by her ladyship. Any hopes of friendship with the woman had evaporated. I had to be civil to her as we would be spending a great deal of time together, but that was it.

  We found most of the night shift in the canteen, scoffing the tasteless scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages that were served for breakfast.

  At nine o’clock, I was about to leave when Moray sauntered through the door, having just come on duty. Now that he was acting station officer, he always worked the day shift. It meant I saw him less, which pleased me.

  ‘For those of you who haven’t yet heard, David Levy’s parents are holding a memorial service for him next Friday,’ he announced to the canteen at large. ‘If anyone wants to go, please let me know so I can arrange cover.’

  ‘What do the Jews do for a service if there’s no body?’ Fripp asked. I had given up expecting tact from her, but this was an outstanding lack of sensitivity. I sat rigidly and glared at the table, but had to accept that I, also, had wondered.

  Unexpectedly, it was Moray who replied. ‘It would be a problem, because burial is supposed to take place within three days of death.’ He seemed pensive. ‘And there are certain rituals that should be performed. None of that can happen now.’

  ‘It’s tough on his family not to be able to do what their faith requires for the poor devil,’ said Squire.

  Celia was looking at Moray, frowning. ‘How do you know all this?’ she said.

  ‘Is it a case of “know your enemy”?’ said Sadler, sniggering.

  Moray gave an easy laugh. ‘It’s no secret, how the Jews deal with their dead.’ He shrugged, and held up his hands. ‘Look, I don’t like Jews very much, but I’m sorry Levy’s dead. He was a fine ambulance attendant.’

  I got up and walked out of the room feeling as if I were propelled by something other than my own muscles and sinews. As if I were a marionette, kept upright by invisible wires, dancing to the will of an invisible puppet master. I walked back to St Andrew’s fighting a cold breeze and hot tears all the way.

  By the time I reached my flat I was so weary that I was bumping into furniture, so after a quick bath I went straight to bed. My sleep was fitful and I found myself in a familiar nightmare, where I was five years old in Kookynie and my father had killed the white rooster. In my nightmare, as in real life, the headless bird ran towards me, its claws raising red dust. It was a bloodstained, mutilated thing, dead but still somehow alive. I was paralysed with fear and I screamed for my father to save me, but this time he didn’t come. Someone else grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the horror. Someone tall and dressed in air force blue. ‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. I have you.’

  I opened my eyes to the sound of rain pattering on the windows. My bedside clock told me that it was one o’clock in the afternoon. I lay for a while staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep, wondering why
I had woken and if the Warning had sounded.

  Eventually I pushed aside the bedclothes and got up, shrugging on my dressing gown. My stomach growled as I shuffled into the kitchen to find something to eat. I could go downstairs to the service restaurant, but I would need to dress and I simply could not be bothered. My own larder, when closely examined, contained a tin of dehydrated egg, a tin of pilchards and one rasher of bacon. I sighed.

  In the bread bin I found the remains of a stale loaf of bread. After cutting mould off the edges of a slice I put it under the grill to toast while I fried the bacon and made a cup of tea.

  On the bench was one of the many leaflets that had been distributed since the beginning of the war. This one told us what to do ‘If the Invader Comes’. It concluded: ‘Think before you act. But always think of your country before you think of yourself.’

  ‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Fripp,’ I muttered.

  I put the toast on a plate and tipped the hot bacon onto it. Then I went out on to my tiny balcony, munching as I looked out over St Andrew’s Gardens. Old tombstones were dotted about in the grass, a reminder of the church that once had stood on the site of the flats. The air smelled of damp vegetation and decay and the gardens were dreary in the rain. On a sunny day the graves presented a delightful whimsy, but on a wet afternoon that was edging towards darkness and the inevitable German attack, they were bleak reminders of mortality.

  ‘The dolorous day grew drearier toward twilight falling,’ I quoted softly. I liked Tennyson.

  The wet afternoon was making me morbid, I decided. What I needed was some light-hearted company. Jim was to take me to dinner that night, but really I would have preferred to see a movie with Pam. I sighed. I did not like to admit it, but I knew Celia was right. Jim really was far too posh for me, and it would surely be better to end things now, before either of us was hurt. I was certain that he was no snob, but it was telling that he was yet to introduce me to any of his friends. It was easy to conclude that he might be ashamed of me – or were my own fears the problem?

  Barmaid Brennan. Barmy Brennan. The bullying I had faced at school had come from the sort of girls who would be at home in the restaurants Jim took me to, or in his club. The sort of girls Celia, and Jim’s formidable mother, would actually approve of.