Now the War Is Over

by Annie Murray

  ‘If you give them to me, I’ll put them in water for you.’

  When she brought them back, their yellow heads just starting to open in the warmth of the ward, they both thanked her quietly and the woman smiled. She had a neat, pretty face and darker eyebrows than her hair.

  ‘I brought him in his books.’ She nodded towards a small pile on top of the locker. ‘He usually ends up here for a few days. That is all right, isn’t it? Shall I put them in the locker?’

  ‘Yes, that might be better,’ Melly said.

  The woman obeyed immediately. It still felt strange to Melly that her uniform made people who were older than her seem to think she had authority over them.

  ‘He does like his poetry,’ she said.

  Mr Alexander smiled at her and Melly saw that he looked nice when he smiled.

  She left them, wondering if they had children and if so, how old.

  It was she who handed Mr Alexander his tea later, when the visitors had gone – a ham salad with coleslaw. As she stood next to him for a moment, Melly could hear his lungs wheezing.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m up to eating much,’ he said. The effort of talking made him cough. He had a quiet, well-spoken voice. ‘These attacks knock the stuffing right out of me.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Just eat what you can.’

  He stopped coughing and looked up at her, very directly, his dark eyes meeting hers. It had an effect on her, this curious frankness, though she could not have said what the effect was. But an impact of some sort, instant and strong. Her pulse picked up speed.

  ‘All right,’ he said, reaching for his fork.

  She didn’t like to say any more to him when he was about to eat and she had other meals to hand out. She went to collect his plate later. ‘I attempted a raid on it,’ he joked, handing her the only half-empty plate. ‘But the raiding party ran out of steam.’ And she smiled and said, ‘Well, it’s good that you’ve eaten something.’

  Unlike the busy morning shifts, the evening shift sometimes offered pools of calm when the nurses had more time to speak to patients. While they were doing the evening TPRs – taking the temperature, pulse and respirations of each patient – Melly’s fingertips had felt the strong pump of blood at his wrist as she counted. She picked up Mr Alexander’s chart to record his results.

  Mr Raimundo Alexander, she read.

  ‘Raimundo?’ she said out loud, without meaning to. She blushed, fearing she had sounded rude.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My mother was from Spain.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, adding foolishly, ‘that’s nice.’

  It explained his dark hair, she thought.

  Of all the patients it was Mr Alexander she wanted to go back and speak to.

  By eight o’clock there was a lull. Melly was walking back along the ward, looking from side to side to check whether anyone needed anything when a low voice from her left called, ‘Nurse!’

  She turned to see Mr Alexander.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But could you pass me the socks from in my locker, please? My feet are icy cold.’

  ‘Oh, dear, are they?’ Melly said. It was hard to imagine being cold on the ward when she was rushing around so much.

  She found a pair of black socks in the locker, beside his pile of books.

  ‘Don’t move – I’ll put them on for you,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to bring on another attack, do we?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it’ll do that, but I must admit, I do feel washed out,’ he said.

  She folded the covers back. Mr Alexander’s slender legs stretched along the bed. He had delicate feet, the dark hairs of his legs giving out at the ankles, the skin very white. She eased a sock on to each foot and covered him up again.

  ‘Shall I see if I can find you another cover?’ she said.

  ‘No – it’s all right.’ He took a wheezing breath, having to lift his diaphragm. ‘It’s only my feet. The socks will make all the difference.’

  ‘Do you need any of your books out of there?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh – now you mention it, yes, please. What did she bring? Would you read the spines to me?’

  Melly leaned down to look. ‘W. B. Yeets,’ she read.

  ‘Yeats.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s pronounced Yates.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt foolish again.

  ‘But then there’s Keats,’ he said, seeming to enjoy himself, ‘spelled with an a but pronounced Keets.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Melly said. ‘You can’t win.’

  ‘No, indeed. Who else?’

  ‘Pablo Ner-u-da,’ she read slowly.

  ‘Ah, yes – pass me that one, please.’

  She handed him the book and put the others back in the locker.

  ‘Is he Spanish?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Well, he writes in Spanish. He lives in Chile.’ He saw her look vague. ‘In South America.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She liked the way he talked to her, friendly and not talking down. She lingered by the bed.

  ‘Are you a poet then?’

  ‘Me? No!’ He gave a wheezy laugh. ‘I design prosthetic limbs. You know – your wooden leg!’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s . . . That’s good.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. And you – you’re . . . ?’

  ‘Just a second-year student.’

  ‘Marvellous. You look very young—’ If he had been about to say something else, his talk was cut off by a long bout of coughing. Melly waited as he curled into himself, his lungs sounding drenched. She wondered if he would rather she went away but she thought she might need to help in some way. As the coughing died, he looked up, took a deep, effortful breath and said, ‘They say you’re getting old when the nurses start looking young!’

  ‘Nearly twenty,’ she said. ‘Not that young.’ But she realized he was almost twice her age.

  ‘It’s a noble thing to do,’ he said. Looking up into her eyes, he added, ‘Not without its struggles, I’m sure. I suppose everyone wants to believe you’re all angels.’

  Melly was startled. She had rather hoped that people did believe she was an angel.

  She shrugged, blushing. She wanted to ask about his work but did not know how to begin.

  ‘My brother can’t walk very well,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t have a wooden leg but he’s had operations on his left leg.’

  ‘Oh?’ She had his attention. ‘Why’s that?’

  She told him about Tommy, about the way he had walked and talked when no one thought he would. An ache filled her as she talked about him. She missed him. And she was worried about him.

  ‘And he’s working, you say? Unusual – he must be quite a lad, that one.’

  ‘He is. He’s at Lucas’s, in Hockley. In the offices.’ And he hates it, she thought. Even though he wouldn’t say. She must go home and see him. It was so easy to get caught up in life here that she almost forgot about home.

  She wondered about Mr Alexander’s family, whether he had children.

  ‘Mrs Alexander not in today?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs? Oh, yes – Mrs Alexander. She is, in fact – she’s my brother’s wife. Very good sort. I lodge with them, you see. No family of my own, sadly.’ He gave her a valiant smile.

  ‘Nurse Booker!’ The other Sister who was on duty this evening called softly from the middle of the ward.

  ‘Ah,’ Mr Alexander said. ‘Duty calls. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Well, you look a bit happier,’ Berni observed as Melly came into their room after the shift. She had just arrived back from her own shift on C4, had already removed her cap from her carroty hair and was sitting on the side of her bed untying her laces.

  ‘Phoo!’ She picked up her shoes, screwing up her face in disgust. Aching, smelly feet went with the job. She rotated her ankles, starting to do the exercises they had been taught to soothe their feet. ‘I bet those men are easier than the women. I spend half the day in the lavatory, I tell you! Then Sister ticked me off because I starte
d off to walk through a door before her.’ She brought her right hand across as if shooing away a fly from her face and picked up her shoes. ‘These can stay outside the door.’

  Melly grinned. She found she was bubbling with happiness. ‘Yes – we had a good shift.’ She told Berni about Raimundo Alexander.

  ‘Raimundo?’ Berni chuckled. ‘God, he sounds like a proper charmer.’

  Melly felt a bit deflated. Berni was so lacking in romance. But once Berni had gone off muttering to the bathroom to wash her feet, Melly looked in the mirror in the bedroom. She did look happy. Her face had a peachy glow, her eyes were bright. She let her hair down. For the first time in her life she looked in the mirror and actually felt pretty.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiled at her reflection. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  Then she felt silly. Who the hell was she talking to? Herself? First sign of madness?

  She was on an early the next day and she realized she could not wait to get back on the ward. Before, all her heightened emotions were negative ones. Now it seemed to be the opposite. The effect Mr Alexander had had upon her in such a short time felt like a sudden lightning bolt. She wanted to be back there, seeing this man with his romantic name, warm brown eyes and friendly manner. After that she had two days off and he might have gone by the time she was back on the ward. At least tomorrow he would still be there and she might have a chance to talk to him. She had never met anyone like him before.

  Thirty-Nine

  ‘Ah,’ Mr Alexander said when Melly presented him with his breakfast the next morning. He was looking shinier about the eyes, less ill. ‘I see my favourite nurse is back on duty. Do they ever let you have any time off in this place?’

  Melly laughed. Berni was right – he was a charmer. But in a lovely way. It felt genuine. ‘I’m off tomorrow, for two days.’ She felt a pang of loss even as she said it. Normally she relished her days off but this time she wanted to keep working while this wonderful man was there, his presence like a glow along the ward.

  ‘Oh, no!’ He pulled a mock-disaster face as she laid a boiled egg and toast on his table.

  ‘Sorry.’ She pulled her mouth down for a second. ‘Toast’s burned again.’

  ‘Ah, well –’ He drew in an audible breath. ‘These things are sent to try us. Actually, I rather like burned toast.’

  He was well enough now to get up and wash himself so he did not need a bed bath. She would feel him throughout everything she did on the ward that morning, like a constant tingle of awareness. She told herself not to be so silly; why should he be interested in her? But almost every time she looked over in his direction, he was watching her and would give a slow smile if she held his gaze long enough.

  Mr Stafford was recovering very slowly with the help of his ‘sippy’ diet. Melly was often the one who had to go and hand him his regular glass of milk. Though she was ashamed of the feeling, she was frightened of going anywhere near him. Every time he took a sip she was afraid some new horror would erupt out of him. But she gave him encouraging smiles and tried not to show him how she felt.

  Everything seemed to be going her way that morning. She was the one to make Raimundo Alexander’s bed, with Cath, the young Irish nurse, while he sat out on his chair. All the time she was doing it, her heart beat faster and she was full of excitement as if all her feelings were intensified again. And he talked to them, or rather to her, asking more questions about Tommy and about her family. They had been told not to talk about themselves to patients, to ask only after them, but with Mr Alexander it was difficult because he was so curious about other people. When she admitted that her father worked on the Rag Market he seemed very interested.

  ‘What does he sell?’ he asked.

  ‘Clothes,’ she said, glancing round to check that Sister was not within earshot. ‘Lately he’s trying to set up something new – leather coats and sheepskins, things like that.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ he said. ‘He must meet all sorts of people.’

  ‘Yes – I s’pose he does.’ She was so used to it she had hardly thought.

  Something about him touched her. For a grown man who was sturdy and good looking he also seemed frail. Patients were often childlike in hospital. Grown men put themselves in her hands as if she was the elder of the two of them and she was suddenly like their mother. It was not quite like this with Raimundo Alexander. He had been in and out of hospital with his asthma and was more used to it than some. But there was a sweetness about him, a wistfulness. And he seemed genuinely to like her and to enjoy her company.

  As for her, she had to admit to herself, over this short time she had become very preoccupied. She only had to look in his direction and see him looking at her, to feel weak at the knees. It was the first time, she realized, that she had felt this about a man since Reggie Morrison. The thought of Reggie filled her with sadness. She hadn’t seen the Morrisons in ages. Gladys went over there every so often, but since they had stopped being neighbours nothing was ever the same. She had barely seen Reggie in years.

  Perhaps I just like older men, she thought. She’d been out with a few boys, like Paul, who was nice enough to spend a bit of time with, but neither he nor any of the others had come close to stirring her feelings like this. She found herself thinking about Raimundo constantly, in a besotted sort of way. As often as she could, she went to see if there was something she could fetch for him – water, books, anything!

  ‘A little chat?’ he said once when she asked if there was anything he wanted.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, eyeing Sister along the ward. ‘No time at the moment.’

  He gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘No – I can see that. Later perhaps?’ And this thrilled her.

  But as it was the early shift with all the usual tasks to get through and with two new admissions to the ward, one with terrible bedsores from being nursed too long at home, the other with an intravenous infusion in his arm, they were kept very busy. Melly was dispirited that she only just managed to find time to have a word with Mr Alexander as she was going off duty in the afternoon.

  ‘I’m going now, Mr Alexander. I’ve two days off, so I don’t know if you’ll still be here?’ She spoke in a bright and cheerful voice, as if to any patient, while her heart was going like a drum.

  ‘So you’re deserting me, are you?’ He looked up at her. In the second their eyes met, Melly felt quite wobbly about the knees again. ‘Oh, dear. Is that really so? Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I shall miss my favourite nurse.’

  She felt like rushing to see if she could exchange shifts with someone, rearrange her days off. But it was too late.

  ‘You might have gone, I suppose,’ she said, ‘by the time I get back.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘They seem to keep me in interminably whenever I have one of these attacks. But just in case . . .’ He held out a hand to shake hers. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Booker.’

  He had remembered her name! Her cheeks blazed red, she was sure of it.

  ‘You too,’ she said.

  She turned to go, then looked back at him and said in a formal tone, ‘I hope you feel much better soon.’

  As she walked away along the corridor of the hospital she found, to her surprise, that she had tears in her eyes.

  Before going home for a visit, Melly took two buses and went to see Gladys in Alma Street. She hoped Auntie would be in. She had not said she was coming. Being a weekday she might be out, getting stuff for the market.

  Aston came as a shock to her now as she did not go there often. It was familiar, in one way, but whereas before she had taken it all for granted, now she was struck afresh by the cramped, mildewy houses and decaying yards, shops boarded up with half-rotted fly posters blowing in the breeze, the blank walls of factories, the smells of rotting rubbish mixing with factory smells.

  When would Auntie stop being so stubborn and call it a day? She could move out any time, Melly thought. They could help her look for somewhere.


  The door of number three was ajar and she heard, ‘Come in, Melly, bab,’ as soon as she knocked. Gladys was in her usual place, looking out over the yard, a half-drunk cup of tea in front of her.

  ‘Fancy seeing you,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Hello, Auntie.’ Melly smiled. The room looked just the same as ever. It was good to be back. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’ll do,’ Gladys said. ‘You’d better make a fresh pot, bab. My feet’re killing me today.’

  ‘Anything going on?’ Melly nodded towards the yard as she filled the kettle from a pan of water Gladys had ready.

  ‘Oh, you know . . .’ Gladys said. She sat up straighter, looking out. An air of sadness hung over her. She seemed tired, defeated in some way. ‘The usual. The Davieses have gone – I don’t know where. More Irish moved in.’ She rolled her eyes, speaking in a flat tone. Melly saw in the hard daylight that her hair was now more white than anything. The colours had been in competition and now white was winning.

  ‘How’re Lil and Stanley?’ Melly came and sat down.

  ‘Oh – you won’t’ve heard . . . She had to have them take Stanley. He went for her – she had two black eyes. He hardly seemed to know who she was any more.’

  ‘Take him?’

  ‘To the asylum.’ Gladys jerked her head in the general direction of Winson Green.

  ‘They call it the mental hospital now, Auntie,’ Melly pointed out.

  Gladys shrugged. ‘It’s the same place.’

  ‘Oh, Auntie.’ Melly’s heart ached for Lil. ‘She never wanted to do that. How is she?’

  ‘You know Lil. Bearing up. She goes over to see him, twice a week or so.’

  Melly made tea and they talked about the family. Melly didn’t tell Gladys she was worried about Tommy. She talked a bit about the wards and dug out one or two of Berni’s stories to make Gladys laugh.

  ‘I’d better be off soon,’ she said when they’d had their tea.

  ‘Oh – I forgot,’ Gladys said. ‘I tell you who I saw the other evening – Sat’d’y, after the market. That youngest wench of Irene Sutton’s – Evie, wasn’t it?’