by Lizzie Lane
‘There’s nothing you can do here, Mr Sweet,’ said a gentle female voice.
‘I don’t care. I won’t be moved!’
‘Get some rest. I promise you we’ll take good care of him.’ The nurse who had spoken laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘I promise.’
Touched by the sincerity and sweetness of her voice, he looked up. She was a ward sister, probably in her early forties, in charge of a number of patients and junior nurses and normally a bossy type. He bit down on another acerbic response that he had no intention of leaving. That was his grandson lying there clinging on to life. He had to be with him – just in case.
Her eyes were brown and when she smiled her expression was kind. ‘We will do everything for him we possibly can. You have to leave us to do our job. Do you know anyone with a telephone, or do you have a telephone box close by?’
‘We’ve got our own. My daughter works for the Ministry of Food …’ His voice trailed away. Why had he bothered to explain the reason he had a telephone when the majority of people did not?
‘Could you give me the number?’
He nodded and gave her the telephone number of the bakery.
She wrote it down, then, taking hold of his elbow, purposefully escorted him to the door. Once that was in sight, she walked slightly behind him, one arm stretched out some distance behind his back.
Just in case I get stubborn and turn around, and run back to Charlie’s bedside, he thought. As if she could stop me.
He wouldn’t do that. She was right. It wasn’t easy to leave but it made sense to leave little Charlie with the people who could save his life.
‘We’ve had a number of cases locally,’ she said to him when they reached the door. ‘Not everyone seems to have heard of the vaccination programme. Diphtheria is an entirely preventable disease now, thanks to vaccination.’
‘Some of them have heard but don’t have the money to pay for it,’ he couldn’t help pointing out, even if he knew that he would pay all the money he had to see Charlie well.
Her gaze was steady. ‘I understand.’
Stan stood in the open doorway wishing he hadn’t allowed his fear of needles to affect his judgement regarding Charlie. ‘How many of the cases you’ve had survived?’
‘Quite a few.’ She looked away. ‘Now, do excuse me. I’ve a busy night ahead.’
The blackout blind was drawn first before she opened the door. Stan stepped outside. It was like leaving one black hole to be swiftly engulfed by another.
The night was black as coal. For a moment, he stood there, nose lifted like a dog sniffing the night air in an attempt to work out the way home. He started to walk, his hands in his pockets, his head bent. Not anticipating being turned out of the hospital to walk home, he had omitted to bring a torch. Not a light showed anywhere, though at least on the main roads he could follow the white lines painted along the pavement edges. Without those he could easily have tripped and broken his ankle. The painted pavement edges finally ran out, replaced by the grass verges of the country road that led home. He was in empty countryside.
It would have helped if there had been some traffic, but there wasn’t any. Nobody drove out into the countryside at that time of night. There wasn’t that much traffic around in the daytime either.
The sky was clear enough, but there was no moon. Living things scurried in the hedgerows; cows lowed from damp pasture and the leaves of oak, elm and ash rustled in the breeze.
Watching his step, Stan turned his coat collar up around his neck. The night air was mild and he sweated as he walked, but still he felt cold. Thinking the worst chilled him to the bone. Diphtheria! Why hadn’t he listened to the doctor’s earlier advice? Fancy ignoring it just because he’d hated receiving the sharp sting of a syringe back in the Great War. He couldn’t even remember what it was for. TB? Typhoid? Smallpox?
Catching his foot in a rut, he stumbled, falling on to the banked-up hedgerow. He swore, got up and brushed himself off.
Finding his way home was never going to be easy, but somehow he instinctively felt he was going the right way. Like a pigeon, he thought, homing its way back to the loft where it lived. Yes. That’s what I am. A homing pigeon.
The night was still and soundless and was easy to get used to. When he did hear a sound, it didn’t quite register, not until it was close behind him. Not until it drew level did he recognise the vehicle for what it was.
‘Hey, bud! Wanna lift?’
The hooded headlights of the American army vehicle threw dim circles of pale light. At road level they picked out the white line along the pavement. By their weak glow he could see the white star on the driver’s door.
‘On your way back to camp?’ He guessed they were on their way to the camp at Siston Common.
‘We sure are. Do you want a ride or not?’
‘Don’t mind if I do. I’d be grateful if you could drop me off on the main road before you turn up to your camp.’
‘That’s the plan, buddy. Climb in.’
He didn’t know the three young men, at least he didn’t think he did. They’d obviously been out on the town and had brought a bottle which they held up and offered to him.
‘Have a drink, pop. Keep out the cold.’
At first Stan was disinclined, but what with the happenings of the night and his concern for Charlie, he accepted gladly, taking a generous swig.
The liquid was hot and raw on his throat, but enjoyable for all that. He exhaled a deep breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I could do with it. I don’t mind telling you I’ve had one hell of a night.’
‘So have we,’ one of them chirped, sounding well and truly pleased with himself. ‘We met some dames and—’
‘Cut it out,’ said one of them to his colleague. To Stan he said, ‘Take no notice of him, pop. He’s an innocent abroad. Never even met a dame before he came to these shores, I reckon. But let him ramble on and you’d think his name was Romeo not Rudolph!’
All three of the soldiers laughed and went on ribbing each other with regard to their sexual exploits, their drinking habits and other habits not mentionable in polite company.
Stan smiled to himself. The first company he’d met since leaving the hospital and they were talking like all soldiers do about drink and women. Nothing had changed much since he was a serving soldier.
Every now and again, one of them broke into song. Stan was in no mood to join in.
‘So where have you been tonight, pop?’ asked the driver.
‘Been to a party, pop?’ asked another.
Before he could stop himself, Stan told them about his grandson being ill and having to stay in hospital.
All three young men agreed that it was just too bad.
‘So how come you’re walking home, pop?’
He could have got irritated at being called ‘pop’, but they were young men and from another country. Pop was as good a name as any.
First he explained about the diphtheria. ‘They refused to let me hang around so I started walking home. Unfortunately, I left my torch behind.’
‘Torch?’
‘Flashlight,’ explained one of his colleagues. ‘So where do you live?’
He told them he was the baker in the village of Oldland Common.
‘Hey. That’s a few miles further on from where we’re stationed. We’ll give you a lift.’
He thought about protesting but changed his mind. The young soldiers had warmed him up with their whisky and their easy friendliness. They were genuinely concerned and didn’t mind him talking about his family and how he worried about them. Before long they were telling him about how they were worrying about their families and how their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters wrote to them saying how proud they were of their being soldiers. Their mood turned sombre.
‘Between the lines, we know they’re worried but don’t want us to know that.’
‘Well, I for one don’t intend getting my head blown off!’ said the one whose n
ame was Rudolph.
‘Me neither. By the way, pop, my name’s Chuck,’ said the guy driving.
‘Pleased to meet you, Chuck.’
‘And I’m Joe,’ added the third of the bunch.
Stan shook hands with all three, Chuck shoving his over his shoulder.
‘So what are you boys going to do when the war is won?’
Chuck threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m gonna get through this war and go home to marry Maybelline and have a dozen children.’
‘Does Maybelline know that?’ asked Rudolph.
Chuck laughed. ‘No. But she’s easily persuaded.’
‘I figure on becoming a boxer. Some kind of sport, anyway,’ said Joe.
Rudolph said he had no plans. ‘I just want to get through this. And then I promise you I’m never going abroad again!’
There was a lot of laughter, and although Stan didn’t laugh as loudly as they did, he felt proud to be with them. He also hoped they would make it through the carnage and return home to have as many children as they liked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Half an hour after Charlie had left for the hospital, Ruby mounted the stairs to bed, insisting that Frances went too.
‘I don’t want to go. I want to stay up until Uncle Stan gets back.’
‘He’d rather you went to bed at the proper time so that you can get up bright and early in the morning. The bakery needs to open in the morning, just like any other day.’ Ruby’s voice was stern, but underneath it all she was worried about her little nephew.
Frances followed her up the stairs, into their room and began to undress. ‘I promised to teach Charlie to make daisy chains. Do you think he’ll like that?’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Ruby eased her feet out of her shoes. She didn’t wear stockings except on special occasions, preferring to keep them for best. Wearing shoes without stockings had taken some getting used to, but the blisters were not as bad as they used to be.
When Frances slid her nightdress over her head, Ruby noticed how mature her body was becoming. She was filling out, getting curves. Frances sometimes acted very grown up. At other times she was still the tomboy she had always been.
Charlie was the light of Frances’s life and she had always gone out of her way to entertain him. ‘Charlie is such a love. I hope he’s all right.’
She wanted to add I hope he comes home, but the words seemed to stick in her throat.
‘He’ll bounce back. He’s a tough little boy,’ Ruby remarked, not because she was one hundred per cent certain that he would, but to keep her deepest fears at bay.
Frances curled her arms around herself. ‘He’s such a sweet boy. Tough, as boys are, but on the other hand he does like running around fields and chasing butterflies and things.’
Unable to say anything without choking on the words, Ruby silently nodded her agreement. She also pinched at her nostrils in an effort to prevent the tears that threatened to pour down her face. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight for worrying. Her plan was to wait until Frances was asleep then go downstairs and put the loaves of bread in the oven ready for when the shop opened.
Throwing herself on to her bed and the patchwork quilt she’d made, she buried her cheek against the cool cotton of the pillowcase. Closing her eyes, she ran her hand over the many kinds of materials that made up the quilt, each piece representing a phase of her life.
The silkiest were those pieces left over from Mary’s wedding dress, which had once been her mother’s dress. A piece of red material, flowered blue and yellow and plain pieces represented dresses made for Sunday best and romper suits for Charlie, plus a dress for Frances.
Frances silently looked down at her nightdress. It had once belonged to Ruby and the pattern of scattered roses had faded over the years.
‘I hate this nightdress. It’s scruffy,’ she said as she buttoned it up to the neck in a haphazard fashion. Thankfully it had never been cut down, hiding the new roundness that had come to her belly.
Preoccupied with the events of the evening and Charlie being rushed to hospital, Ruby failed to notice that anything was amiss.
‘Frances! I don’t want to hear it. Just get into bed and go to sleep!’
Frances slid thankfully beneath the bedclothes. ‘You’re not undressed.’
‘I’m too tired,’ Ruby snapped.
It was an expedient truth: she was tired but knew sleep would be elusive.
She heard Frances plumping up her pillows, lying first on one side then the other. Springs twanged and the cast-iron joints of the bed creaked against the bolts that held them in place. The metallic noise was accompanied by a series of sighs and a sob.
Guessing Frances would be tossing and turning all night, Ruby was unable to console her cousin. There was nothing she could say that would ease her pain, and anyway, she couldn’t ease her own. Feeling drained and defeated, she closed her eyes and thought about Johnnie Smith. In one instant she cast her mind back to that day they’d made love, a time when neither of them had imagined him in prison thousands of miles from home.
Please God he gets through this.
For a time there was only the ticking of the alarm clock, before Frances spoke.
‘Will Charlie die?’
Ruby’s eyes flashed open. ‘No! Of course not.’ Ruby refused to admit it could happen. She would not admit it. ‘Don’t talk so silly! He’ll get well. He’ll be home soon.’
Her stomach churning with apprehension, she waited for Frances to raise another question. She wondered what time her father would be home. Perhaps not until breakfast time.
Ruby stared into the darkness, a thick, all-consuming darkness thanks to the lack of streetlights and the thickness of the blackout curtains. Closing her eyes took her halfway to sleep, and perhaps she might have had a short time of half-baked dreams.
Muffled sobs from the next bed drew her back to full wakefulness. Her heart went out to her young cousin. Frances had done her best to be brave, but no matter how much her cousin insisted she was an adult, Ruby believed she was still a child.
Her own eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip and choked back the sobs that threatened. We must be brave, she thought to herself, but knew she wouldn’t be if she let Frances know that she was still awake and just as upset as she was. Somebody had to be strong.
Half an hour, perhaps more, and the sobbing had ceased, replaced by gentle breathing interspersed with a heartfelt sniff.
Unwilling to wake her cousin, Ruby slid quietly off the bed, her toes groping for her shoes. They had chunky heels and rubber soles. Noisy shoes. Fingers replaced toes. She found the worn leather around the heels that had caused her blisters. With a mind to the noise the mattress could make, she rose gently from the bed and with shoes in hand headed for the bedroom door.
The warmth of the bread oven met her halfway down the stairs. The oven was still warm from yesterday’s bake. A flick of a switch and the gas pilot light would bring it into life for the loaves of bread waiting their turn to be baked.
Even though she was used to the smell of bread being baked, she never tired of its comforting smell. Today was different. Its rich aroma was unaltered, but the events of the evening before had changed everything.
Young Charlie was ill. She wouldn’t feel comfortable until he was home again.
It was four in the morning and dawn was lighting the night sky to dark grey when the American army Jeep pulled up outside Sweets’ Bakery. Stan alighted, the dawn light enough for him to see his way. Before leaving them, he thanked his new-found friends.
‘It’s much appreciated,’ he added, just a little bit wobbly on his legs. ‘That whisky was strong.’
‘Irish whisky,’ proclaimed Joe. ‘Take care, old timer.’
Stan shook his head. The lad had called him old timer! They were right. He was – and just as a new day was breaking, that was exactly how he was feeling. Very tired, very worried and very old.
He told them to drop in whenever they w
ere passing.
‘Sure we will. What did you say your daughter’s name was?’
The other guys laughed. Stan took it in good part but added, ‘Excuse me, young man, but didn’t you say you were getting married and having a dozen children when you get home?’
The young solider laughed and said he was glad to be reminded of it. ‘Maybelline has one hell of a temper, pop. Thanks again for reminding me.’
On hearing the sound of a vehicle, Ruby had ventured into the shop, peering out from behind the closed blind, the shop black behind her. Motor vehicles were rare enough in the village, so to hear one at this time was even rarer. Although dawn was breaking, she refrained from turning the light on.
When she saw her father get out of the Jeep, she barely restrained herself from going out and demanding how Charlie was and where he was. She said nothing until her father was in the shop, the door shut tightly behind him.
‘How is he?’ Not wishing to wake Frances up, she kept her voice low.
‘They’ll let us know. I take it nobody’s called?’
She shook her head. ‘Nobody.’
Feeling a trifle disappointed, Stan removed his hat as he came inside.
Ruby locked and bolted the door behind him. It was still early and no customers were due until they opened at seven.
Stan threw his hat on to the counter, hung his head and sighed disconsolately. ‘It’s all my fault. I should have got him vaccinated.’ He shook his head. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’
He would have repeated the same word a hundred times over, but Ruby touched his arm. ‘Dad, you weren’t to know.’
He looked down into her eyes, wondering when it was she’d grown to look like Sarah.
He sighed heavily. ‘I should have paid when it was suggested and had him done. All this because I couldn’t stand the sight of needles when I was in the army. Things have improved since then. Medicine has moved on and I was too pig-headed—’
‘Dad! Stop it right now! Come on through to the kitchen. The kettle will have boiled by now.’ Ruby was adamant, her voice fierce.