Brave Faces

by Mary Arden

  I made it clear that I thought it was all a waste of time and that I’d much rather be nursing wounded soldiers. He was pleased that I wanted to work in the same profession as him but warned me that it wouldn’t be easy. ‘It’s all very well changing dressings and wiping a sweating brow or two, but when it’s broken bones and blood, or missing limbs, it’s not the same thing at all. I’ve seen some horrific injuries from all the bombings recently. Are you sure that you really want to be a nurse? It’s going to be damn hard work and very bloody.’

  His question made me stop and think. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  ‘Anyway, you still have plenty of time to think about what you want to do,’ and then he added, ‘In the meantime you can invite me to your coming out parties, as there’ll be lots of free dinners and weekend house parties, which I wouldn’t get a chance to go to unless I was your escort!’

  We spent a happy evening catching up on old times and it was like having an extra brother to talk to, and better in some ways as I felt that I could talk to Marcus about things that I never would have with Peter and William.

  A week later, I was back at the Manor for the new term. The temperature had dropped below zero. The news announcer warned that one of the coldest winters on record was predicted, and he was right. We woke up the following morning to see that all the trees were now encased in ice, and hanging from each branch and every twig was a stiff white icicle. They looked breathtakingly beautiful but I was quite happy to appreciate them from indoors.

  All the pipes had frozen solid, and unfortunately because most of the plumbers had been called up to serve their country, the pipes remained frozen for days. Signora announced at breakfast that ‘Instead of afternoon walks, I’d like you all to wrap up warmly, go into the woods with sacks, and collect fallen twigs and branches so that we can keep the fires going, which will help our coal ration last longer.’ These afternoon collections became known as ‘Twigging’.

  The ground was so hard that there was no question of doing anymore riding, as it would be far too dangerous for the horses, and the roads were so slippery, that there was no prospect of driving into Eastbourne for singing lessons either, so Signora decided to take advantage of her girls being held captive indoors and gave us one to one lessons on how to use a typewriter, and how to do shorthand so that we would be able to join one of the ministries, where these skills would be required. A number of us said we would prefer to join the WRNS or even the WAAFS, and two of the girls said that they would prefer to become VADs. My roommate, Cherry, said she would like to become a FANY, as a lot of her sister’s friends had already joined and were meeting some gorgeous men! This of course set us all off giggling, but only after Signora had left the room.

  In the first week of the Easter holidays, after kissing all her family goodnight, Aunt Edith fell asleep and never woke up. Bridget, Jane and their brother Tim came to stay with us for a few days after the funeral. It was a very sad time. My father wrote to Signora to tell her about the death of his sister and asked her if she would accept Jane at the school, after she’d passed her School Certificate. Signora agreed to think about it.

  Once Jane and her siblings had gone back to London, life for my family carried on as usual. My mother was still doing her bit for the war effort, driving an ambulance five days a week, and my father was travelling up to London to the War office every day.

  The sound of German bombers flying overhead at night made sleep almost impossible. We would all listen solemnly to the wireless at nine o’clock each night to hear the latest news about the casualties from the air raids, aircraft that had been shot down, ships that had been sunk with all hands on board, and the loss of our troops in North Africa. I was finding it hard to keep my spirits up, after listening to so much horrific news night after night, so my mother took me to one side and gave me some good advice, ‘The best thing to do my dear, is to keep busy,’ so that is exactly what I did for the rest of the holidays.

  I worked several hours a week at the Woking Cottage Hospital, carrying trays and learning how to make beds with neat hospital corners, and when the nurses were busy I was entrusted with changing dressings. Matron had told the other nurses that I was not to empty bedpans, which I was very grateful for as it would have meant wiping the men’s bottoms, which I didn’t fancy doing one bit, but that I could take a bottle to a man and empty it when required, but apart from being excused bedpan duty, I worked every bit as hard as all the trained nurses. When I wasn’t working, I spent my time off either looking after my brother William, playing tennis, going for bike rides or helping Kay with her baby son, Richard, who I would take for walks in his pram to give her a break. Then one evening, Andrew suddenly turned up at out house out of the blue.

  ‘Its horribly quiet at the Derwents, as the boys are all away,’ Andrew remarked, ‘so I was wondering if you felt like going to the flicks with me tonight, my treat?’

  The film was a Whodunit and neither of us guessed who the villain was, which made us laugh and say what useless detectives we would make. On the way home Andrew told me that he hadn’t been sleeping very well.

  ‘Does being a Pathfinder worry you?’ I asked, thinking that might be the reason he was having problems.

  ‘To be honest, it’s been Goddamn terrifying these last few months,’ he admitted.

  ‘The thing is that when you get caught in the Germans’ searchlights you’re blinded for a few moments and as it takes time for your eyes to adapt back to the dark again, you’re very vulnerable and that’s the time you are in the most danger.’

  ‘Couldn’t someone else do it instead of you, after you’ve done this turn?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘There’s a limit on the length of time we’re expected to do this work, but if I funk it too soon, some other poor chap will have to take my place, and I don’t think that’s fair,’ Andrew explained. ‘But I’ll have a month’s leave in September, thank God.’

  ‘Good, well it will be my turn to treat you to the flicks next time,’ I promised, as he kissed my cheek goodbye.

  But I wasn’t able to keep my promise, as two nights later, Andrew’s plane, according to Mrs Derwent who phoned my mother with the terrible news, was caught in the enemy’s searchlights and blown to pieces.

  I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. My mother took my hand in hers and told me that I must try to hold on to the thought that Andrew had been doing what he had wanted to do: to serve his country and help win the war.

  I whispered over and over again, ‘It can’t be true. There must have been a mistake. He can’t be dead. I was only talking to him the day before yesterday.’ I put my hand up to my cheek: ‘I can still feel where he kissed me goodbye.’

  The following day, my mother and I went round to the Derwents house, and let ourselves in, as we usually did. We found Mr Derwent sitting alone in the drawing room. His eyes were red rimmed from crying. All I could do was to put my arms around him and give him a hug.

  ‘Will there be some sort of funeral?’ my mother asked.

  ‘I am not sure,’ Mr Derwent replied. ‘His parents are in Singapore somewhere. I’m doing my best to contact them but it’s not easy. This has really been the boy’s home on and off over the last few years, and to be honest he’s more like one of our sons than he’s ever been to his own parents,’ he confided, his voice breaking.

  I couldn’t bear it any more. I ran out of the Derwent’s house, back through the gap in the fence and up the garden to the air raid shelter. I sat there on the steps and sobbed.

  About an hour later, Peter appeared looking very worried and said that he’d been hunting for me for ages. He was quite distressed to find me weeping so miserably and did his best to make me feel better.

  There wasn’t a funeral for Andrew in the end, as there was no body to bury and his parents were unable to come back because of the war. However, the Derwents arranged a private memorial service for their family only.

  A few days later Signora rang my mother to tell her that she
had had to relocate the school, as she’d been informed that as the Germans were now using long-range guns to fire across the English Channel, so the south coast was no longer safe enough for us. She said that she had already found the perfect house in Northamptonshire, near Oundle, and that it was called ‘The Hall’. She also agreed that Jane could come and join me there, but not until the autumn.

  When I arrived at The Hall for the summer term, there were a few new girls who all seemed very friendly. Apart from continuing all our usual lessons we were also taught how to skin a rabbit, pluck a hen and degut fish, all quite disgusting tasks that made one or two of the girls retch. Making sponge cakes and soufflés was a lot more fun.

  One day, I noticed a letter on the hall table addressed to me but I didn’t recognize the handwriting. When I opened the envelope and started to read it I realised with surprise that it was from Henry. He had written to tell me that he was now temporarily based near Oundle not far from my Finishing School, so if I saw any planes flying over The Hall, it would most probably be his squadron, so if I was outside when they came over, I was to wave like mad, and he might see me. If he did, he would waggle his wings, and then I would know which plane he was in.

  Sure enough, a few days later when we were ‘Twigging’ in the woods once again, we suddenly heard the sound of several planes approaching. I shouted to my friends to come and wave at the planes with me. The planes, which I could see were Spitfires, flew very low over The Hall and then disappeared out of view. I thought we had missed them but then the planes reappeared, but this time seemed to be heading straight towards us.

  ‘It’s Henry, It’s Henry!’ I screamed, waving with both hands and nearly falling backwards in the process. One of the girls then mimicked me, which made all the other girls laugh and soon there were five young girls all screaming at the sky ‘It’s Henry, It’s Henry!’

  To my delight, one of the planes separated from the others and waggled its wings before then quickly re-joining the others. It really was Henry, and he had seen me. I was so happy that I burst into tears. One of the girls said that she had been so frightened by how low they had flown that she’d nearly wet herself. I thought that this was so funny that later that evening I wrote to Henry to tell him. He wrote back a week later to tell me that he had got one of the ground crew to paint a pair of knickers on the side of his Spitfire! Naughty Henry!

  On Saturday 10th May, Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament and the British Museum were all damaged after London was bombed very heavily, and there were many casualties. It was the worst night of The Blitz, so far and I was very worried about Jane and her family but knew that my parents would let me know if anything awful had happened to them or to Aunt Beth.

  My mother wrote to me a few days later to reassure me that everyone was all right and that I should concentrate on my studies. As I was writing back to my parents, Signora came into the room and told us that she had decided that it would be a good idea for her gals to host a fund-raising party at the school, to which she would invite local dignitaries, our parents, and possibly some sixth-form students and their parents from Oundle School.

  ‘We’ll put on a dancing display and set up some stalls,’ Signora announced. ‘And I want all of you to think up other ways to entertain the guests. Maybe we could even do a Morse code demonstration?’

  The week before the big event, Signora came to watch our dance rehearsal. We had made our own costumes out of some slightly transparent material, which we thought made us look like very glamorous Greek nymphs, but Signora told us that she could see our white knickers through the material, and suggested that to rectify that problem perhaps we could wear ‘little slips’ instead, which would match the colour of our dresses. She told us that she would get the local seamstress to make them for us, which she did, but took the word ‘little’ too literally, delivering slips that were barely decent! But we wore them anyway, and they caught many a stray male eye, far more than our white knickers would ever have done. Signora was delighted when we received an encore and, I think, had been pleasantly surprised at how good our dancing was. The stalls were a great success too: with customers buying up all our bottled fruits, jams and cakes, knitted articles and other donated goods. Signora was delighted by the funds that had been raised. A week later we broke up for the summer holidays.

  My brother, Peter, was at home and told me that he had just got off the phone with Henry, who had mentioned that his cousin was staying in his house in London, recovering from a nasty leg wound. Apparently he worked for Intelligence and was supposed to be overseas somewhere, and not in England, which is why I had to keep it secret and not say a word to anyone. I thought that if its supposed to be a secret surely Peter shouldn’t be telling me about it, so why was he? I then found out.

  ‘Henry needs your help, Mary,’ Peter continued, ‘He will explain the situation to us when we arrive. The thing is, he needs someone with a bit of nursing experience to take care of his cousin, warming up the meals that his cook will prepare beforehand, and Henry thought you might be willing to do both.’

  I was amazed that Henry had thought of me and immediately agreed to help. Peter then explained that Henry’s cousin would be transferred to Henry’s father’s home in the country to convalesce, but not until the end of the week, as he was in too much pain to be moved at the moment. Apparently there would be an army nurse who would come daily to do dressings and administer medicine, but it might be necessary for me to change bandages now and again, if the wound seeped too badly.

  ‘We won’t be on our own very much, Mary,’ my brother assured me, ‘Henry says that his sister, Lavinia, will pop in most afternoons, and that he’ll do his best to help out by keeping his cousin amused in the evenings, when he isn’t on flying duty.’

  My mother was a bit taken aback, when Peter told her that he and I had been invited up to London to stay with one of his chums, Hamish, and attend some concerts with him at the National Gallery. It was a lie of course, but one that my brother thought my parents would believe. In fact, she not only believed him but also thought it was a good idea, in principle anyway. She then fired him with questions such as, ‘Will there be another woman in the house where you are going to stay?’ and ‘Will you stay with your sister all the time, and if you can’t, who will look after her?’ Peter reassured her, and I had to admit that his string of lies was really quite masterful. He then told her that we would be visiting Aunt Beth several times during the week too, and so my mother finally agreed to let me go with him.

  When we arrived at Waterloo station, Peter bought a copy of the evening paper, so that we could check the programme for the lunchtime concerts at the National Gallery, which would enable us to convince our mother that we had attended them. We then took a taxi to Redcliffe Gardens to see Aunt Beth’s new flat, and when we arrived I handed her the eggs and flowers that my mother had asked me to give her. We didn’t stay very long, but promised to come back the following day.

  ‘It’s essential to see quite a lot of Aunt Beth to make an alibi,’ Peter reminded me, as we hailed another taxi to take us to Henry’s father’s house near Grosvenor Square.

  As we approached the house we were both still laughing at Aunt Beth’s request for us to try and find her a ‘spiv,’ whom she explained was a street-vendor that sold knickers-elastic, cottons and other haberdashery, illegally on the streets. If we saw one, she pleaded, would we please buy anything that might be of use for sewing, ‘Look near Barker’s in Kensington, or near Harrods,’ she suggested, ‘as they usually stand around the street corners near there, out of sight of the police.’

  ‘It’s bad enough that our mother barters the stuff we grow in the garden to get extra sugar and stuff,’ Peter chuckled, ‘without Aunt Beth asking us to break the law by buying things on the black market. We’ll have a look tomorrow, though, before we book the concert tickets and see what we can find.’

  Henry had told Peter that his father’s batman, Mr Tom, would be in the house between t
hree-thirty and five that afternoon, so we weren’t surprised to find the elderly man waiting to let us in.

  Mr Tom reiterated how grateful all the family were that we’d agreed to come, and told us that he’d do his best to help us all he could. Peter then asked Mr Tom how Henry’s cousin was doing.

  ‘The Colonel will do better now that you are here I am sure,’ Mr Tom replied.

  I hadn’t realised that my patient was a Colonel and wondered whether I should call him Sir. Mr Tom carried my case up to Lavinia’s bedroom and asked how our journey had been, ‘You and Lady Lavinia will be sharing, Miss Mary, but her Ladyship is seldom at home these days, as she has her own flat now,’ he informed me.

  ‘Now let me show you the Colonel’s bathroom, Miss Mary,’ he said kindly.

  We walked along the landing to the Colonel’s bathroom, and as we entered, Mr Tom pointed to a pee-bottle, that was half-covered with a towel, next to a bedpan.

  ‘Leave everything personal to me, except in an emergency,’ he said and then turning to Peter asked, ‘perhaps if the Colonel needs help in the night you will do the honours.?’ Peter nodded and said that of course he would.

  As soon as Mr Tom had left I went to meet the Colonel. As soon as I opened the door to his room I recognised the smell of infected flesh at once. Determined not be put off, I entered with a cheerful smile: I’d come to help, and help I would, so I strode forward with my hand outstretched: ‘Hello Colonel, I’m Mary Arden, Henry’s friend, and I’m very glad to meet you.’

  ‘And I’m bloody glad to see you too my girl!’ he said smiling. ‘Excuse my French, but its damn boring sitting here all day with no one to talk to.’