Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  In the end, Frankie staggered rather than ran. The noise from the nearby battery was tremendous. It was where the country’s only fourteen-inch guns were firing across the Channel. The guns, named ‘Winnie’ after the prime minister Winston Churchill and ‘Pooh’ after the story book character, were positioned three quarters of a mile from the sea, near the village of St Margaret’s at Cliffe, just off the main road between Deal and Dover.

  ‘Dispatches for Major Ryan,’ she gasped as the sentry halted her at the gate.

  The sentry let her through and escorted her to the office. Feeling cold and clammy although she probably looked flushed, Frankie couldn’t stop shaking, only managing to say her name and hand over the documents before she finally collapsed. She was immediately bundled off to the sick bay but the nurse took one look at her leg and decided she needed to go to hospital. Frankie drifted in and out of consciousness until they took her in a St John ambulance to Deal and Walmer hospital. Only vaguely aware of what was happening, she eventually found herself between crisp and cool sheets for the first time in days. Someone gave her an injection and she slept. They woke her every now and then to take her temperature or offer her a bed pan but everything else was sleep, sleep, and yet more delicious sleep.

  She woke to the sound of a trolley trundling through the ward and a voice saying, ‘Cup of tea, Miss?’

  Frankie hauled herself up the bed on her elbow. ‘Ooh, yes please.’ She glanced under the sheets. There seemed to be a thick bandage on her leg between her knee and her hip and the leg itself felt rather sore. ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Thursday,’ said the ward orderly who had handed her the tea.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ Frankie asked the nurse when she came a little later on to take her pulse.

  ‘Three days.’

  Frankie was aghast. ‘Three days?’

  ‘You came off your motorbike and scraped the skin off your thigh. We had to clean it up in case any grit was in the wound but don’t worry, it wasn’t too bad after all.’

  ‘I seem to have been sleeping a lot,’ Frankie remarked.

  ‘You were exhausted,’ said the nurse. She was an older woman with flecks of grey in her hair and Frankie wondered vaguely if she had been retired and called in because they were short staffed. So many girls were joining the auxiliary services now.

  ‘When can I go home?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘The consultant will be doing a ward round later on this morning,’ said the nurse, scribbling something on Frankie’s chart. ‘They’ll tell you then.’

  ‘Does my aunt know I’m here?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the nurse. ‘Don’t you remember? She was here last night.’

  As she hurried away Frankie frowned. Oh dear, poor Aunt Bet, to come all this way and she wasn’t even awake!

  The ward cleaners bustled around after breakfast making sure everything was straightened and spotless. Once the beds were made, each patient was expected to lie still and not disturb the bedclothes. At ten forty-five a bevy of doctors arrived through the doors. They worked their way around the ward, standing at the foot of each patient’s bed until the consultant had looked at the notes and studied the patient’s chart at the bottom of the bed. Every now and then, the consultant would bark a question at one of the junior doctors.

  Frankie lay perfectly still as the consultant and his entourage moved towards her bed. At the same time there came the sound of hurrying footsteps as the ward doors burst open.

  ‘Ah, Doctor Delaney,’ said the consultant, as he pulled the curtains around her bed, ‘so good you could make it.’

  Frankie turned her head to glimpse the newcomer. Doctor Delaney was a man who stood out from the rest. He was about five foot eight inches tall and had close-cropped, black, curly hair which framed his flawless ebony coloured skin. He was also handsome – very handsome, with dark enquiring eyes and an enigmatic smile. Frankie had never seen a completely black man before and this one was absolutely stunning. She didn’t mean to stare but there was something rather wonderful about him.

  ‘I apologise, Mr Hill,’ he said. His voice was deep and the colour of velvet; his accent was American. ‘I went to the wrong end of the hospital.’

  ‘When in doubt, Doctor Delaney,’ Mr Hill said, ‘just ask.’ There was just the hint of a teasing smile on his lips. ‘We Brits always know the way.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, sir.’

  Frankie was mesmerised.

  ‘Miss Sherwood?’

  Frankie started as she realised that Mr Hill had been speaking to her. ‘Beg pardon?’

  Mr Hill tutted. ‘See the effect you have on my patients, Doctor Delaney? I asked you what sort of hours you work, Miss Sherwood.’

  Frankie blushed a deep crimson. ‘It varies, sir,’ she began, ‘but in view of the present crisis I’ve been working quite long hours. It can’t be helped. There is a war on.’

  ‘When you came in, young lady,’ he said in what was obviously a mock-stern voice, ‘you were exhausted and severely dehydrated. We may be at war but you must make sure that you drink plenty of fluids and that you look after yourself.’

  Frankie lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do you think of this girl, Doctor Delaney?’ the consultant said addressing the black doctor again. ‘Like millions of others, she’s not just doing her bit. She’s giving her all.’

  ‘I have long been an admirer of the British woman, sir,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be interested to know, Miss Sherwood,’ Mr Hill continued, ‘that this man has brought blood plasma donated to the people of this country by the United States. Should you have needed a transfusion for that leg injury of yours, this man might have saved your life.’

  Doctor Delaney waved his hand dismissively and Frankie didn’t know what to say. Her face was pink and her heart thudded in her chest. The consultant put Frankie’s chart back on the end of her bed. ‘So, from now on,’ he said firmly as he looked at her over the rim of his glasses, ‘you’re to look after yourself, Miss Sherwood. You’ve got a bit of an infection in that leg which will keep you in hospital for a while but as soon as we discharge you, I certainly don’t want to see you back in here again.’

  As Mr Hill and his posse moved on, Doctor Delaney pulled the bed curtains right back. ‘Good luck, Miss Sherwood,’ he said, giving her a lingering smile.

  And Frankie’s heart did a somersault.

  Twenty-Five

  Patched up and back home, it was strange being back in her old room on North Farm. The days she’d spent here seemed a lifetime ago. When she got up the next morning, Frankie found the courage to open the bottom drawer. The princess doll was still there, just as she’d left it. A rush of feelings flooded through her: love and loss, pain, and joy. She’d forgotten how beautiful the doll was. Now that she was older, she could appreciate the fine stitching on the waistcoat and how dainty the buttons were. She lifted the skirt and was transported back nearly nine years to the day when she’d first set eyes on the doll’s petticoat and pantaloons. She lifted her head and remembered her mother’s enigmatic smile as she’d watched her. There was a pain in her chest now, a terrible longing and she was surprised to find that her cheeks were wet with tears.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispered and all at once she knew she’d spent too much time being angry with her. Now that she understood all the love which had been sewn into this doll, she wondered why she had been so cross all these years. Everything her mother had done for her was because Frankie was the centre of her life. Those stories … they weren’t lies. Her mother had no intention of making a fool of her. She merely wanted to entertain her child. And now, because of what had happened to Alan and her own accident, Frankie could see that she’d rejected her mother because it was the only way she could deal with her pain and loss. Just like her poor cousin, she’d been lashing out at nothing. What an idiot she’d been.

  Gazing out of the window and onto the farm, she thought of Doctor Delaney. How ha
ndsome he’d been. In her mind’s eye, she could still see his lovely smile and hear his honeyed voice and she wished with all of her heart that she might see him again.

  She heard Aunt Bet calling upstairs, ‘Breakfast is ready, dear,’ and she jumped. She had been hugging the princess very tightly as she sat on the bed rocking herself.

  ‘Coming,’ she called. Frankie had planned to take a walk up to Hillbarn but now she was consumed with a longing to see her old home again. It wasn’t that far and although her leg was still stiff, the doctor had told her she could do mild exercise so she was sure she could walk that far. Placing the princess back in the drawer, Frankie pulled on her dressing gown and hurried downstairs.

  Aunt Bet was happy to do whatever she wanted so, after breakfast, they strolled down to the village. Nothing much had changed in Broadwater although, less than three miles away, Worthing had experienced its own share of bomb damage and loss. Several houses had been destroyed in Haynes Road and nine people had died when a plane crash-landed in Lyndhurst Road. Mercifully it narrowly missed the hospital or the death toll might have been much higher. There were bomb craters on the Downs but it was comforting to see that, despite the war, life in Broadwater went on as usual. The new parade of shops built in 1934 was flourishing. Frankie couldn’t really remember how things had looked before but of course Aunt Bet could. They linked arms as they walked along the road where she used to live and all at once they were standing right outside the gate.

  ‘It’s changed so much,’ Frankie whispered.

  ‘It looks a right mess,’ said Aunt Bet disapprovingly.

  Thick ivy branches covered the walls of the house. Old tin cans and beer bottles littered the area around the front door. The little garden in front was unkempt and overgrown with only a forlorn rose waving on a straggly bush under the window. Frankie swallowed hard. ‘Mum planted that bush in memory of my father,’ she said, her throat tight with emotion and Aunt Bet squeezed her arm sympathetically.

  They heard a footfall behind them and a voice said, ‘Excuse me, dear.’

  They were standing in front of the gate, blocking the way for an old lady with a pram. ‘Oh sorry,’ said Frankie stepping aside.

  The old woman looked up at her with rheumy eyes. ‘Frankie?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’ It was only then that Frankie realised it was Mrs Dickenson, her old neighbour. ‘My, my,’ Mrs Dickenson went on, ‘haven’t you’ve grown into a fine young woman.’

  As soon as the older woman saw she was with Aunt Bet, Mrs Dickenson invited them both in for a cup of tea.

  It seemed churlish to refuse so they followed her into the house. There was nothing in the pram apart from a little shopping so Frankie guessed that she used it to balance. Mrs Dickenson was beginning to look her age. Her legs were bandaged and she struggled to walk. The house smelled stale and it was dark in the hallway. A cat greeted them lovingly but Mrs Dickenson shooed him outside and shut the door.

  ‘All on my own now, dear,’ she said inviting them into the kitchen. She switched the gas on under the kettle and reached for the tea caddy. ‘My old mother, God rest her soul, died back in ’38 and the boys left home. Cyril got married and moved to Canada; Morris and Bert joined up when the war started. Morris is in North Africa, of all places, and Bert is in Leeds.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘And here’s me, never been any further than East Grinstead.’ She put three cups and saucers onto the table. ‘Just me and Puss left but as long as I can get about …’ her voice trailed. ‘Oh, it’s good to see you, dear. In the ATS, so I see.’

  Frankie nodded and told her a little of what she was doing. With the tea made, Mrs Dickenson sat at the table with them. ‘And what of you, Mrs Cavendish? You and your family keeping well?’

  Nodding, Aunt Bet told her about the rest of the family, mentioning that Alan had been at Dunkirk.

  ‘That was a terrible business,’ said Mrs Dickenson, ‘and it was a terrible business what happened to your poor sister all them years ago. She was such a lovely lady.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘She made them curtains for me. Didn’t charge me a penny piece for them either.’

  Frankie glanced over at her aunt. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘’Course you don’t, dear,’ said Mrs Dickenson. ‘You were only a little girl.’ She pushed the cups of tea in front of them. ‘I always thought there was something fishy about her death. I did try to tell the police but they insisted it was natural causes.’

  Aunt Bet sniffed. ‘I always wondered why someone turned the place over.’

  Mrs Dickenson nodded in agreement. ‘I heard somebody banging about – opening drawers and then there was a lot of bumping, like something being lumped upstairs but I didn’t go round. I feel bad about it now but I was on me own and I thought it might be burglars.’

  ‘I discovered a while ago that the person who was searching for something was Mrs Toms,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Mrs Toms?’ Mrs Dickenson exclaimed. ‘What, that religious nutter?’

  As Frankie went on to tell Mrs Dickenson about the discovery she and Doreen had made in Mrs Toms’ garden, the old woman’s eyes grew larger. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. I wish I’d gone in there now. If I’d known it was only that awful woman I’d have given her a piece of my mind if nothing else.’

  Aunt Bet covered the old lady’s hand. ‘Please don’t blame yourself,’ she said. ‘You did the best you could.’

  Mrs Dickenson gave her a watery smile. ‘Then there was that foreign-looking chap who was knocking on her door. What was he doing there?’

  Frankie frowned. ‘Pardon? What foreign-looking chap?’

  ‘Miss Paine saw him as well,’ Mrs Dickenson went on. ‘You remember her? She used to live the other side of you and your mum. She died a few months back. Anyway, he was wearing a funny shirt. Not like one I’ve seen before. It looked a bit like an old-fashioned night shirt, you know, with buttons up to the neck but no collar.’

  ‘There was a lot of talk at the time about some Russian chap,’ said Aunt Bet.

  ‘The shirt sounds a bit like the sort of thing a Russian would wear,’ said Frankie. She gave an involuntary shiver. He didn’t sound like the sort of customer her mother usually had but there it was again. Russia. She recalled the story of the princess in London. But it was ridiculous. It was just a story. Wasn’t it?

  ‘My neighbour down the road swears she saw him too,’ the old lady went on. ‘She was waiting for the London train and she saw him get off the Littlehampton train on platform two.’

  ‘So he must have travelled from London,’ said Aunt Bet.

  ‘I suppose he must.’

  ‘Did you ever see him again?’ asked Frankie.

  Mrs Dickenson shook her head. The three of them sat in silence, each lost in her own thoughts. ‘Of course you know who lives in your old place now, don’t you?’ Mrs Dickenson went on. ‘Sidney Knight, your old landlord.’

  ‘I know,’ said Frankie. ‘I came back when the war broke out and he shouted at me.’

  ‘You never said,’ Aunt Bet said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have been here.’

  ‘What made you come?’ Mrs Dickenson said.

  ‘I wanted to smell Mum’s roses.’

  ‘He’s let the place go to rack and ruin,’ said Mrs Dickenson. ‘The only time I’ve ever seen him do anything in the garden was to cut back that rose bush. Took it right to the ground, he did. Mind you, having said that it was a mass of blooms the next year.’

  ‘Roses like a bit of pruning,’ Aunt Bet remarked sagely.

  ‘He never did anything else,’ Mrs Dickenson muttered. ‘There’s a bloomin’ tree growing out of the guttering round the back.’

  ‘I thought he had one of those posh houses on High Salvington,’ Aunt Bet exclaimed.

  ‘He did, but he sold that soon after his dad died,’ said Mrs Dickenson. ‘Got a tidy sum for it too although I doubt there’s much left. Sidney spends all of his money on sick horses.’

  Puzzled, Frankie and her aunt glanced at
each other. Mrs Dickenson cackled. ‘They must be sick. They’re nearly always last past the winning post.’

  Frankie smiled.

  ‘Of course, he’s not here now,’ Mrs Dickenson went on. ‘He’s having a holiday courtesy of His Majesty.’

  Frankie raised her eyebrows. ‘Eh?’

  ‘She means he’s in prison,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Stole a charity box,’ said Mrs Dickenson with a disgusted tone and the three of them tutted and shook their heads.

  The tea was gone and Frankie and her aunt could see Mrs Dickenson was looking tired so they made their excuses.

  ‘Before you go, my lass,’ said Mrs Dickenson, handing her a pair of scissors, ‘you go and cut that rose.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Frankie. ‘It’d be stealing.’

  ‘Who’s to know?’ said Mrs Dickenson. ‘Besides, it’s only dying on the twig, isn’t it?’

  Despite Aunt Bet’s protestations that she would over-tire herself, they made their way back to the farm via Hillbarn with a couple of blooms from her mother’s rose bush. The council had built that golf course her mother had talked about, but there was still plenty of space to walk. It was wonderful to enjoy the peace and quiet far away from the ravages of war. Back at the farm, Frankie put one of the roses between two sheets of paper and left it under a heavy book to dry out.