‘Please, Aunt—’ She was whimpering now, unable to stop herself even though she knew her pleas would only goad her aunt further. ‘Please, don’t—’
The leather cracked, and she felt the hot snap of pain across her cheek, sending her reeling backwards. All she could do was cower, her arms over her head, and wait for it all to be over.
Chapter Twelve
THE NIGHTMARE JOLTED Dora into wakefulness and she jack-knifed upright, gasping for breath, her heart hammering. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, lost in the sea of her double bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, her nightgown damp with sweat. But slowly, as her eyes got used to the darkness, she started to make out the familiar shapes of the wardrobe and chest of drawers, and the soft breathing of her babies on either side of her.
She put her hand to her chest and tried to breathe deeply as the sound of Nick’s screams slowly faded from her mind. But they didn’t disappear completely. When she closed her eyes, she could still see his face, caked with dirt and blood and glistening with sweat, distorted with pain and terror.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had the nightmare. She’d had the same dream every night since the news came from Dunkirk. For the past week she’d woken to the same awful vision.
But this was too vivid to be a dream. It was as if he were there, so real and solid she could have reached out and touched the rough serge of his uniform, stiff with dirt and blood. Even now, she could still hear the deafening sound of machine-gun fire, the explosions, the sound of panicked screaming, and—
Waves. Underneath the deafening bombardment, the muted roar of the sea, and the smell of salt . . .
Beside her, baby Walter stirred and started to whimper. He was a far lighter sleeper than his sister, who went on breathing softly, her plump little arm curled over Aggy the rag doll. Usually Dora would have waited for Walter to go back to sleep by himself. But this time, glad of the distraction, she got out of bed, disentangling herself from the sheets, and picked him up.
‘There, there, sweetheart,’ she crooned softly, burying her face in the warmth of his shoulder, calmed by his comforting baby smell. Holding her son close, she could feel her frantic heartbeat slowing down at last.
Walter soon nodded off, his head heavy on her shoulder. Dora tucked him back into bed beside his sister, but she couldn’t face getting back in herself. Weary as she was, she was afraid to sleep in case the nightmare came back and she saw Nick’s face again in her dreams. She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs to the kitchen.
She tiptoed past Danny, curled up on his mattress under the window. Not that he stirred – Danny always slept so soundly, his innocent mind untroubled by fears and nightmares. She envied him that.
Dora crept into the scullery and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she went over to the window, lifted a corner of the heavy blackout curtain and looked out. It was a balmy June night, and the air was still. There were no street lamps, but the full moon cast a silvery light over the backyard, illuminating the coal bunker, the outhouse and the makeshift rabbit hutch that Little Alfie had put up for Octavius after he gnawed his way out of his cardboard box.
The day after he’d built it, Nanna Winnie had made a show of going out into the backyard with her knife, much to Little Alfie’s dismay.
‘You can’t eat Octavius!’ he’d cried, distraught. ‘He’s my pet.’
‘He’s another bleeding mouth to feed!’ Nanna shot back. ‘I’m sick of him eating all my best greens. He’s going in a pie.’
As Dora and her mother tried to console Alfie, Nanna had returned five minutes later empty-handed. ‘There ain’t more than a morsel of meat on him yet,’ she’d declared. ‘I’ll wait till he’s filled out a bit.’
Rose had winked at Dora. ‘I knew she wouldn’t do it,’ she whispered. ‘I caught her out there feeding him carrot tops the other day.’
Was that really only two weeks ago? Everything had seemed so normal then. If Dora had known what was to come, she would have cherished their laughter, held on to it with everything she had. Now she longed for those days, when they were full of hope . . .
‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one?’
Dora looked over her shoulder. Her mother stood in the doorway to the scullery, her dressing gown drawn around her.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Dora said. ‘I tried to be quiet.’
Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t sleep much these days, to be honest.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t suppose you do either?’
Dora turned away, taking an extra cup from the cupboard. ‘The kids were restless,’ she said. ‘I think Walter might be teething again—’
‘It’s all right, Dor. I’m your mum, you don’t have to pretend with me.’
No, she thought, but I have to pretend to myself. If she stopped pretending, she wasn’t sure if she would have the strength to go on.
It was only in her dreams that the mask came down and reality clawed at her. Dora thought again about her nightmare, about the incessant rattle of gunfire, the rush of waves. If she breathed in, she could still almost smell the salty tang in the air.
That was why she couldn’t sleep. She was too afraid.
‘It’s all right to be worried,’ Rose went on. ‘It’d be a strange thing if you weren’t. But you’ll get some news soon.’
When? Dora wanted to cry out. It had been over a week since the evacuation began. They had already had a letter from her brother Peter to say he was safe, and at the hospital not a day went by without one of the nurses hearing good news from a loved one. Dora celebrated with them, but at the same time her heart broke that she still hadn’t had news of Nick.
With nothing else to go on, she could only imagine the worst. And working on the ward, being surrounded by men with devastating injuries, men whose lives and bodies had been shattered by war, only made her imagination run riot.
‘Chin up, love. You heard what Pete said in his letter. It’s been that chaotic bringing all the men back, even the War Office can’t keep track of who’s where.’
‘I know, Mum.’ Dora tried to smile.
‘You know what they say. No news is good news.’
Dora looked into her mother’s tired brown eyes. Rose didn’t believe that any more than Dora did. But she was desperate to give her daughter hope, and Dora was desperate enough to take it.
What else could she do? She was trying her best to keep smiling, but with each day that passed it was growing harder and harder to believe that the news would be good.
The following morning Dora arrived on the ward to find more casualties had arrived during the night, including a wounded airman in one of the private rooms.
‘He has suffered extensive burns over his face and body.’ Sister Holmes recited the gruesome details in a flat voice. ‘He is being kept sedated with morphia for the pain. He will need his dressings changed every two hours, and a daily saline bath.’
But her face told a different story. The private rooms were for patients on the Dangerously Ill List, who needed extra nursing care. They were also, although no one would admit it, the patients with little chance of recovery.
Dora glanced sideways at Daisy Bushell. The colour had already drained from her face.
‘Sister won’t expect me to help with his dressings, will she, Nurse?’ she whispered anxiously, after Sister Holmes had dismissed them. ‘I honestly don’t think I could manage it.’
There isn’t much you can manage, is there? Dora bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. Daisy should have been used to the men’s injuries by now, but she still turned faint at the sight of blood. But Dora couldn’t be too angry with her. The girl gamely turned up every day and did her best. And even though her skills were limited to scrubbing floors, making beds and emptying bedpans, Dora knew they couldn’t do without her.
There was talk of a new VAD arriving the following morning. Dora only hoped she had a stronger stomach than Miss Bushell.
‘Poor devil,’ he said grimly to Dora. ‘He’s in a wretched state. Mr Cooper amputated his arm and has given him antitoxin, but it probably won’t be enough to save him.’ He shook his head. ‘Frankly, I’m astonished the poor chap made it back across the Channel. He must have been determined to get home.’
Dora suddenly thought of Nick. Was he out there too, struggling to get back to her?
Sister Holmes summoned her over. ‘You’ll have to deal with the new patient since I’m busy with Dr Jameson’s round. He’ll need an intravenous infusion of saline. I’ve already set it up for you.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
As she walked into the room, the putrid sweetness of the gas gangrene hit Dora like a sickening wall. She held her breath, forcing herself not to gag as she attached the infusion and arranged the warmed blankets and hot water bottles around the man.
She consulted his notes. His name was Sam Gerrard, and he was twenty-five years old. The same age as Nick. Bile rose in her throat again, but this time it had nothing to do with the man’s injuries.
She was replacing his notes when his eyes suddenly fluttered open.
‘Where am I?’ he whispered, his voice as dry as sand.
Dora came to the side of the bed, where he could see her. ‘You’re in hospital, ducks. In London.’
‘I made it home, then?’
‘Yes, you’re home. Safe and sound.’
‘I dunno about that.’ His mouth curved in the sketch of a smile. ‘I’m in a bad way, ain’t I?’
Sam was an East End lad, she could tell it from his accent. He sounded so much like Nick it almost broke Dora’s heart. She forced her brightest smile as she lifted his wrist to check his pulse. It skittered beneath her fingers like a trapped bird. ‘You’ve got home, and that’s something,’ she said. ‘Now, can I get you something to drink?’
‘A pint would be nice.’
‘I don’t know if I can manage that! How about some water?’
Private Gerrard had drifted off to sleep by the time she’d poured his water for him. But he woke up again as she was setting up a heat cradle over his bed.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Something to keep you warm.’
‘I’d rather have my missus.’
Dora smiled. ‘You’re married?’
‘With two kids. Twins.’
Her throat dried. ‘How old are they?’
‘Just turned a year.’
Dora stared down at him. It could have been Nick lying there in that bed.
‘I – I’ll get you that drink I promised you, shall I?’ She forced herself to stay calm as she carefully lifted his head and held the cup to his lips for him to drink.
‘Are you sure that machine’s on?’ Sam said, as she laid him down again. ‘I’m bloody freezing.’
‘Give it a minute,’ Dora tried to smile, but anxiety uncurled inside her. ‘Are you in any pain?’
He shook his head. ‘Not as much. Hardly any, I’d say. Whatever you gave me must be doing the trick.’
‘That’s good news.’ Dora turned away so he wouldn’t see her face. It was a good sign, she told herself, even though all her training and experience told her the opposite. The pain stopped when the toxins took hold.
She switched off the heat cradle. ‘There, we’ll leave it for half an hour then put it on again.’
‘Miss?’ She’d reached the door when Sam called her back.
‘Yes?’
‘I will be all right, won’t I? Only I promised my wife I’d come home for her and the kids.’
Dora hesitated for a moment, not sure if she could trust herself to speak. Dr Jameson’s words came back to her. He must have been determined to get home.
‘You’d better keep your promise then, hadn’t you?’ she whispered.
Dora was still thinking about Sam Gerrard as she made her way home later. It was another warm June evening, and Victoria Park was closing. As Dora passed, it made her smile to see the park-keeper with his bunch of keys jingling on his belt, ushering people out of the yawning gap that had once been the park gates.
She thought of another young woman, just like herself, cuddling her baby twins in the small hours of the morning, wondering and worrying and waiting for news.
Her husband would come home to her, Dora decided. Sam was a fighter, just like her Nick. He had made his wife a promise, and he meant to keep it. That promise alone would keep him alive, just as it would keep her Nick alive.
But then she turned the corner and saw her mother standing at the end of the alleyway, and her heart stopped in her chest.
Her mother never came to meet her. Not unless she had news . . .
Dora saw the envelope in her mother’s hand and suddenly she wanted to run, to turn and flee and not have to face whatever lay ahead of her. But her legs seemed to melt away from underneath her, and the next thing she knew she was sitting on the kerb as her mother walked slowly towards her, holding out the telegram she had been dreading.
Chapter Thirteen
‘THE WHOLE WARD will need to be swept and damp-dusted every day, including the floors, the window sills and the lockers. Be sure to dust the bedsprings and clean the wheels of each bed, too. Sister will check it’s done properly. You’ll find brushes and everything else you need in this cupboard here . . .’
Jennifer stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and wondered if Nurse Riley would ever stop talking. She’d been going on and on for the past ten minutes, listing all Jennifer’s duties. They seemed never-ending.
‘And this is the linen room,’ Nurse Riley went on. ‘This is where we keep all the clean sheets and pillowcases. The beds will need to be changed every day, and remade several times a day. It’s very important to make sure the patient is comfortable. You have been taught how to make a bed, I suppose?’
She regarded Jennifer with a frown, and the girl stared back at her. The staff nurse was a few years older than Jennifer herself, sturdily built, with muddy green eyes, gingery eyelashes and a freckled face. She looked fierce enough that Jennifer knew she wouldn’t want to cross her.
‘Yes, Nurse.’
‘Good. I hope you can do it quickly, too. Sister expects a bed to be made from start to finish in under two minutes. Any dirty linen needs to be rinsed in the sluice, and then packed up and left in those bins out there for the porters to take to the laundry.’
Jennifer stifled another yawn. She really shouldn’t have gone up west with Cissy the night before she started her new job at the hospital. But Cissy had just heard that Paul was safely back in England, and she was in the mood to have some fun.
Boy, they’d really kicked up their heels! There were no British boys in London any more, but the city was teeming with all kinds of exciting foreign soldiers from all over the world. Jennifer had danced all night with Canadians, Polish, Frenchmen, all lonely and looking for some lively company. But in the end it was a young Norwegian who had caught her attention, a handsome blond giant in a blue serge suit. She hadn’t been able to understand a word he’d said, but that didn’t seem to matter when she was in his arms.
She and Cissy had finally crept home just as dawn was breaking, their shoes in their hands, having cadged a lift on the back of a milk float from Aldgate. Thank God their dads had both been working nights, or there would have been hell to pay.
‘Am I keeping you up, Caldwell?’
Jennifer came back to the present to find Nurse Riley staring at her.
‘Sorry, Nurse,’ she mumbled.
Nurse Riley tutted. ‘Really, I hope you’re livelier than this when Sister’s around. She won’t take any of your nonsense. Now here’s the kitchen, where you’ll boil up the urn for the drinks round, and here are the bathrooms – they’ll need to be scrubbed thoroughly every day, although most of the patients will need to be bathed
in bed, due to their injuries.’
Was there an inch of the ward that didn’t need to be scrubbed or mopped or polished or dusted? Jennifer wondered as she followed Nurse Riley out of the bathroom. As she left she caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors and paused to adjust her cap to a more rakish angle on her dark curls.
The uniform rather suited her, she thought. She’d always looked good in blue, and the crisp white apron emblazoned with a red cross gave her an air of importance.
‘Caldwell!’ Nurse Riley snapped at her again, breaking her out of her daydream. ‘Follow me, and I’ll take you down to the sluice.’
Nurse Riley led the way down the ward, her shoes squeaking on the polished floors. Jennifer looked around at the patients. What a terrible, sad sight they were, some with limbs missing, others with their faces and bodies swathed in bandages. Some of the beds had screens around them, shielding them from view. Jennifer wondered what shocking sights lay behind them.
‘Don’t stare,’ Nurse Riley snapped. ‘These are wounded men coming to terms with their injuries and the last thing they need is you gawping at them. You must try not to be silly or insensitive when you’re on the ward.’
Who are you calling silly? Jennifer felt like asking. But she didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Dora Riley. She seemed short-tempered enough already.
None of this would have been so bad if Cissy had been with her. It was so unfair that they’d been separated. Jennifer had been pleased when she found out she was going to be looking after soldiers on the Male Acute ward, until she found out Cissy was being packed off to Casualty. What had seemed like an adventure was turning out to be very dull indeed without Cissy to share it.
‘This is where we keep the trolleys and the screens that go round each bed when the patient is being washed or examined.’ Nurse Riley pointed them out as she swept past. ‘And these are the private rooms.’
Jennifer peered in through the first door, which was half open. The curtains were pulled, shutting out the June sunshine. But in the shadowy darkness, she could make out a figure in the bed, lost amid what seemed to be a complicated arrangement of bandages and straps.
Nightingales at War Page 9