As the weeks and months went on, Kathleen and Hilde grew accustomed to the horrors of the air raids. Collecting severed arms and legs in an old tarpaulin and matching them up with dead bodies they had found became routine, as did braking suddenly when huge craters appeared in the middle of the road in front of them. They got used to sleepless nights and uneaten meals, and to frequent stops to throw up in the gutter.
Some of the girls’ call-outs were almost surreal. One night they arrived at a house that had been ripped open by the blast from a bomb, only to find a woman sitting naked in a bath on the first floor, fully exposed to the street below. She was covered in blood from head to foot, and was screaming hysterically as a fireman climbed up a ladder to bring her down.
Although the work Kathleen was doing was emotionally draining, living in the capital did have its advantages, as it meant that she was able to meet up with Arnold from time to time. His parents lived in Clapham and he came down to London to visit them whenever he had leave.
Kathleen’s dashing fiancé certainly knew how to show a girl a good time, and would wine and dine her in the smartest establishments he could find. One night they went to see a Polish orchestra perform at the Royal Albert Hall; another they took in a play on Shaftesbury Avenue. Arnold even took Kathleen to the famous Windmill Theatre in Soho, where they gawped at the tableaus of naked women.
As time went on, however, the horrors of working on the ambulances took their toll on Kathleen, and when an opportunity arose to take on some slightly less distressing employment, she decided that the time had come for her to leave. Her mother had heard that the hospital she worked at in Cambridge was looking for nursing auxiliaries, and suggested that Kathleen should join her there. ‘You could live at home and save money on the rent,’ she pointed out.
It was too good an opportunity to pass up, and before long Kathleen had handed in her notice at the ambulance depot. When she told Hilde of her plan, the other girl was sympathetic. ‘I can’t blame you for leaving, Kath,’ she told her. ‘I just wish you the best of luck.’
A few days later, Kathleen found herself seated in front of a couple of senior nurses in an office at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. ‘So, you’re Mrs Skin’s daughter?’ asked a grey-haired matron with a no-nonsense manner, as she scribbled something on a piece of paper in front of her.
‘That’s right,’ Kathleen replied.
‘Mrs Skin is a natural,’ said the other woman, a ward sister of around 40. ‘Very sympathetic with the patients.’
‘Do you have any nursing experience yourself?’ asked the Matron.
‘Not exactly,’ Kathleen replied, ‘but I’ve worked as an ambulance auxiliary, and before that I was a nanny, so I’m used to looking after sick children.’
‘Well, I’m sure we can find something for you to do here,’ the Matron said briskly.
Soon Kathleen was kitted out in yet another new uniform – this time a white apron and nurse’s hat – and learning how to make a bed, alongside around 20 other new auxiliaries. Under the watchful eye of the Matron, the girls worked their way around an empty ward, practising their hospital corners on all the beds, and then learning to lift a life-size dummy in and out of them. For Kathleen, who had mastered the procedure after about two or three goes, the endless repetition felt unbearable, but the girls weren’t allowed to move on to the next lesson until every one of them had changed 50 beds in a row.
Next came crash courses in blanket-bathing their life-size dummies, and the correct procedure for emptying and cleaning out bedpans. ‘Well done, everyone,’ the Matron told them at the end of the day. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be putting what you’ve learned into practice.’
The next morning, Kathleen reported for duty bright and early. She had been sent not to Addenbrooke’s Hospital itself, but to an overspill annexe that had been set up two miles away in the Ley’s School – the same site, in fact, where Arnold and his friends had been billeted when she met him at the King’s carol concert. It was a grand old red-brick building, with its own chapel and a beautiful lawn at the back – if anything it looked less like a school and more like one of the old colleges.
But the salubrious environment was certainly not matched by the work she was expected to do. After a brief stint putting her bed-making skills to use as assistant to the duty nurse, Kathleen was placed on toilet duty. As well as emptying the bedpans, this meant escorting those patients who were less steady on their feet to the loos, and helping them do their business. It was not the most pleasant of tasks, especially with the older men, who seemed to have no control over where their emissions ended up, but Kathleen always managed it with good humour.
As the days went on, the patients on the ward got to know and like Kathleen, and she began to grow fond of them too. One day, she came in to find that one of the men, an old fellow called Mr Smith who was suffering from bowel cancer, had gone missing. ‘Have you seen him?’ one of the other nurses asked her anxiously. ‘He’s been gone from his bed for a good hour now.’
‘I’ll go and look for him,’ Kathleen replied, setting off down the long school corridor in search of the elusive patient.
She stopped at the nearest toilet to check if Mr Smith was in there, and as she opened the door she was hit by a smell that almost knocked her off her feet. Covering her nose with her hand, she cautiously went inside.
Mr Smith was sitting on the toilet, sobbing miserably. The floor all around him was covered in diarrhoea, and it had soaked through his pyjamas as well. The poor man had struggled to get to the toilet by himself, but he hadn’t quite made it in time. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said feebly, when he saw Kathleen standing in the doorway. ‘I don’t think I can get up yet.’
As he sat there, red-faced and covered in his own excrement, Mr Smith looked like a broken man, and despite the disgusting smell – which left Kathleen struggling not to retch – she felt desperately sorry for him. ‘It’s all right, Mr S,’ she said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. ‘I’ll get you cleaned up in no time. You just wait here while I go and fetch a bucket.’
It took a good half-hour’s cleaning before both Mr Smith and the toilet were fit for public view. But as Kathleen scrubbed away she made sure not to let her own discomfort show, keeping up a string of jokes and upbeat conversation in an attempt to raise her patient’s spirits. By the time they left the little cubicle together – he leaning on her arm as she led him back to his bed – the old boy was almost back to his normal self.
‘You know, you should think about nursing full time,’ one of the older nurses told her, when she got back to the ward. ‘You’re a natural, just like your mum.’
‘Thank you,’ Kathleen replied. ‘But I can’t. I’m going into the Navy.’ Despite her two rejections, she hadn’t given up on her dream just yet.
Kathleen knew that getting too attached to the patients could make things difficult, especially since deaths on the ward were not uncommon. When one of their charges passed away, the nurses responded with a minimum of fuss, drawing the curtains around the bed and telling the other patients, ‘He needs to get some rest.’ Then, in the middle of the night, a couple of men would come and take the body away – and by the next morning, when the rest of the ward awoke, someone new would be lying in the bed.
But, inevitably, she became closer to some patients than others. When a young British soldier, Private Glover, was admitted to the ward suffering from cancer of the throat, Kathleen couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He was a Northerner and didn’t know a soul in Cambridge, so when he was discharged after a short spell of treatment, she was determined to make sure he didn’t feel lonely. Kathleen invited him round for tea at her mother’s house, and even arranged a trip with some other young soldiers for her next day off from the hospital. The plan was to walk up the River Cam to Grantchester and spend the day there, watching the water go by.
But as Kathleen and the others gathered to begin the expedition, there was no sign of Private Glover. When she arrived at the Ley’s Scho
ol the next day, she asked one of the other nurses if the hospital had received any news of him.
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ the other girl replied. ‘He was brought back in here yesterday, and he died.’
‘He died?’ Kathleen repeated, dumbstruck. ‘But I thought he was almost ready to go home.’
For many days afterwards, she struggled to hold back tears whenever she thought of the poor young man, and she wished she had been with him at the end.
For Kathleen, it was a great relief that at the end of every shift she had her mother’s little house on Pembroke Street to come home to. Mrs Skin was delighted at having her youngest daughter back with her, especially since her youngest son, Lance, had recently joined the Army. Much to Kathleen’s chagrin, she was now the only one of her siblings who wasn’t in the forces.
Before long, however, the Skins found themselves preparing for a major family reunion. Kathleen’s oldest sister Maevis had got engaged to a man she’d met in the Army, and she wanted the wedding to be held in Cambridge. Her intended, a Sergeant Davies from Wales, didn’t exactly sound like the ideal son-in-law – as he confessed in a letter to Mrs Skin, he had got another girl ‘in trouble’ when he was 18, and ten years later was still paying maintenance to keep her and the child.
But despite this blot against his character, it was clear that he was devoted to Maevis, and when Mrs Skin saw how happy he made her daughter, she felt she had no choice but to offer her blessing. After all, her family in South Africa had done their best to dissuade her from her own marriage, and despite everything that had happened to her husband later, she had never regretted that decision.
The wedding was set to take place at a beautiful medieval church called St Botolph’s, and with the date fixed, the siblings all put in for leave from their various forces so that they could attend. Mrs Skin set about preparing for the big day, visiting all her friends to cadge a cup of flour here and a pound of sugar there until she had enough ingredients to make a decent wedding cake. She managed to borrow a lovely white gown, altering it herself to fit Maevis, and even booked a band to play at the reception. By the standards of wartime weddings it was set to be a splendid affair. All that was missing was the father of the bride to walk his daughter down the aisle, since poor Mr Skin was languishing in the asylum.
On the day of the wedding, the family set out for the church together. Maevis was looking immaculate in her beautiful white gown, while her sisters had their best dresses on as bridesmaids. The neighbours all stood on their doorsteps to watch them go. ‘Fancy spending all that money at a time like this,’ Kathleen heard one of them mutter. She only hoped that her mother hadn’t heard it.
But there was little that could have dented Mrs Skin’s good mood that morning. Getting her three daughters married off had always been a concern to her, so she was over the moon that her eldest was finally tying the knot.
When they arrived at the church, the vicar was waiting outside. ‘The congregation are all seated,’ he told Maevis. ‘We’re just waiting for the bridegroom.’
‘Oh,’ Maevis replied, with an awkward little laugh. ‘It’s not like him to be late.’
‘Well, not to worry,’ the vicar said, smiling reassuringly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here before long.’
But as the minutes ticked by, still there was no sign of Maevis’s fiancé. Mrs Skin was doing her best to keep her daughter from becoming upset, reassuring her that she had heard from him the day before and he was definitely coming – perhaps his train had just been held up.
After three quarters of an hour, though, the vicar emerged from the church again, and this time the smile was gone from his face. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have another wedding party arriving in ten minutes. I’m going to have to tell the congregation to leave now.’
Maevis nodded silently, the tears already beginning to stream down her face. ‘All right, thank you, vicar,’ Mrs Skin said quietly, as she led her distraught daughter home.
Back at the house on Pembroke Street, the family changed out of their best clothes, and gathered round in the little living room. There was nothing anyone could say to make Maevis feel any better.
On Monday morning, Maevis went back to her ATS camp, and the other brothers and sisters all departed for their wartime postings as well. Once again it was just Kathleen and her mum left at the little house. But news of the failed wedding had spread, and the neighbours were muttering once more. ‘You know he got a girl into trouble before,’ Kathleen heard one of them tell another.
Being stood up at the altar was every girl’s worst nightmare, and Kathleen wished to God it could have happened to anyone other than her favourite sister. She didn’t say anything, but privately she couldn’t help wondering what on earth had caused Sergeant Davies’s change of heart. Maevis tried contacting the War Office to see if they had any information on his whereabouts, but they told her they could do nothing to help her – and she never heard from her fiancé again.
It was many months since Kathleen had clapped eyes on her own intended, Arnold. They wrote to each other regularly, but since his work with the Army seemed to take him all over the country, it was only rarely that they could snatch any time together. One day, though, Kathleen was coming to the end of a long shift at the hospital when a girl rushed up to her and announced breathlessly, ‘There’s an Army officer outside who wants to see you.’ Kathleen knew at once that it must be him.
Unfortunately, she had spent all day in the small operating theatre which was housed in the school’s basement, assisting one of the surgeons on a string of tonsillectomies. As the news came of Arnold’s arrival she was wearing an apron covered with blood, and holding a metal bucket full of all the tonsils that had been removed. But the girl’s urgent tone made it clear that there was no time to go and get changed.
Kathleen ran up the stairs two at a time until she reached the school entrance. Looking out across the perfectly manicured lawn she could see Arnold, standing in his Army greatcoat while the rain lashed down upon him.
But the weather was the last thing on Kathleen’s mind. She rushed over to her fiancé, dropping the bucket of tonsils as she ran, and pulling the bloody apron over her head. As she reached him she threw her arms around his neck and he swept her into a passionate embrace.
‘I’m afraid I can’t stay more than a few moments, darling,’ Arnold said, gazing earnestly into Kathleen’s eyes. There was a pained look on his face that she had never seen before. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he told her sadly.
‘Goodbye?’ she repeated. ‘But you’ve only just arrived.’
‘We’re being shipped out,’ Arnold explained. ‘I can’t tell you any more about it, but I could be gone for some time.’
He squeezed her so tight that for a moment Kathleen could barely breathe. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, of course,’ Kathleen replied. ‘And I love you too – so much.’ She clung to him, wishing with all her heart that somehow she could make him stay longer.
But there was nothing either of them could do to delay Arnold’s departure. ‘My men are waiting for me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I must go now.’
There was just time for one final kiss, and then he turned and walked away from her.
Kathleen watched, helpless, as he disappeared into the rain.
10
Jessie
When Jessie returned to 518 mixed battery at the end of her compassionate leave, she found a bundle of letters there waiting for her, tied up with a piece of string. She teased the package open and out fell the last two weeks’ worth of messages she had written to Jim.
There was also a letter from her late husband’s commanding officer, informing her that Jim had been buried at a cemetery 40 miles west of Tunis, and offering Jessie his condolences. From it she learned that, far from being killed instantly as she had hoped, Jim had in fact been badly wounded in a German attack. ‘I saw him taken away in an ambulance, and
later heard that he had died,’ the CO told her, doing his best to reassure Jessie that he was sure Jim had not suffered.
But Jessie found it hard to take much comfort from the officer’s words. After all, wasn’t that what people always said? She would never know for sure what Jim’s last moments had been like, but in her heart she felt that he had probably suffered greatly.
The fact that Jim was really gone was beginning to sink in, but the dazed feeling that Jessie had experienced before had been replaced by a terrible hollowness. Knowing that her husband would never be with her again, she could no longer imagine a future for herself, and her life in the present seemed utterly pointless too. She stopped playing the piano and barely even ate, only forcing down just enough food to keep going. She continued to apply herself to her work, knowing that if she made a mistake she would be letting other people down, but as she stood working the height-and-range finder throughout the long nights on the gun-site, she felt strangely detached from what was happening, as if someone else was in control of her body.
Determined to keep the pain of Jim’s death at bay, Jessie proceeded to destroy what relics remained of their love, burning the photos she had kept of him, as well as the letters they had written each other. The only memento she kept was her wedding ring, which she continued to wear.
Although she knew her friends wanted to help her, Jessie couldn’t bring herself to burden them with the misfortune she had suffered. She didn’t even feel she could talk about Jim’s death to Elsie Acres, in case it brought back difficult memories of her fiancé dying at Dunkirk.
But the camp offered few opportunities to grieve privately either. In fact the first time Jessie found herself alone for any length of time was when she was put on guard duty. Previously she had passed the nights in the sentry-box humming songs to herself or reciting old poems she had learned, but now she found that one sonnet in particular was playing over and over in her mind.
The Girls Who Went to War Page 14