Flora's War (7 page)

‘Yes. What specifically does Lady Bellamy want to save them from?’ I hooked my arm to his free one.

He looked at us seriously. ‘Don’t for goodness sake let Ma know that I told you,’ he said. ‘But I think girls need to know what’s what.’

‘So just what is what?’ Gwen asked.

Frank thought for a moment. ‘There are parts of Cairo that you two, hopefully, will never see. There’s a section called Haret el Wassa. The men call it the Wozzer. There are lots of bars and lots of houses where men pay to be with women.’ He gave us each a steady look. ‘You know what I mean, Gwen. I told you years ago. I don’t blame the soldiers for going there, they’re a long way from home, they’re young, and they don’t know any better.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘Thank you,’ Gwen said quietly.

We exchanged a look behind Frank’s back. This was far more information than we’d expected.

‘You can see why Lady Bellamy wants to offer the soldiers alternative activities and I wish her the best of luck,’ said Frank. ‘Whether the soldiers will take her up on tea and crumpets and table tennis instead of the Wozzer is a different matter.’

‘It rather changes my view of Lady Bellamy,’ Gwen said. ‘I know she’s a stuffy, straight-laced, bossy old trout –’

‘Gwen!’ Frank said. ‘What a way to speak of your elders. I’m truly shocked.’

I grinned. Frank winked at me.

‘But I suppose she’s trying to do the right thing,’ Gwen finished.

Frank left us at the entrance to the pavilion and we joined the other volunteers being given their orders by Lady Bellamy. She was handing out large, all-enveloping overalls with
Lady Bellamy’s Rest and Recreation Centre for Soldiers
embroidered on the bibs. Gwen and I eyed them. We’d chosen pretty dresses to wear today. The overalls would cover them completely.

‘Attractive shade of green, too,’ I whispered.

‘Guaranteed to make any complexion look like mud,’ Gwen agreed in an undertone. ‘Well, I suppose that’s what they were designed for.’

‘Offer the boys tea and ask what they’d like to do. If they don’t know, suggest newspapers, magazines, writing a letter home, table tennis or a board game,’ Lady Bellamy instructed. ‘Keep moving, don’t spend too long with any one soldier; there will be others wanting your attention. I need hardly add: chatting, but no
socialising
, ladies!’

Did she look at Gwen and me as she said that? I wondered. Huh! What was she expecting? And just how did one distinguish between chatting and socialising? Oh well, I was sure Lady Bellamy would soon tell me, if an innocent chat somehow evolved into dangerous socialising.

The first soldiers through the door were Australians and as soon as they heard my accent, they gravitated to me. I sent some off for tea, directed one to the table tennis and suggested the latest newspapers to another. One remained.

‘And what would you like to do?’ I said brightly.

‘Well, I really wanted to write a letter home,’ he said. ‘But you see …’ He held up his right arm, it was in a sling.

‘What did you do to yourself?’ I asked. ‘Is it bad?’

‘I broke it when a horse threw me,’ he said. ‘It’ll mend. The thing is, I can’t write. Would you – would it be too much to ask you to write a letter for me?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Come on, we can do it now.’

I led him to the desks, set out stationery and ink and we sat down. ‘Now, what’s the address?’ I asked.

He gave me an address in Victoria, and I started to write to his dictation. We’d been there for perhaps fifteen minutes when Lady Bellamy loomed over me.

‘Is everything all right, Miss Wentworth?’ she asked. She glanced significantly at the watch pinned to her ample bosom.

‘Yes, perfectly, Lady Bellamy,’ I replied. ‘I’m just helping –’ I glanced at the soldier.

‘Trooper Hendy,’ supplied the soldier. He indicated his arm. ‘The young lady’s very kindly writing a letter for me. To my fiancée,’ he added.

That stumped Lady Bellamy. She nodded and sailed off.

‘Bit of a battleaxe, eh?’ Trooper Hendy whispered to me.

‘She could run an army on her own,’ I agreed. ‘But she means well.’

After we finished the letter Trooper Hendy slipped a photograph of himself and some mates posing beside the Sphinx inside the envelope and I promised to see it was posted. As he went, he looked back at me and grinned.

‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘The letter’s to my sister, not my fiancée.’ He grinned again. ‘And I’m left-handed.’

My face must have been a picture, but I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Cheek!’ I said. ‘All the same, any time you want a letter written just ask for me. My name’s Flora.’

He went away laughing.

Well, that was fine, I thought. I felt –
useful
. I’d made Trooper Hendy happy, and his sister would be pleased to hear from him. I looked around for someone else to help.

The morning went by quickly. British and New Zealand soldiers also came in. It wasn’t hard to find something to talk about; mention their homes and families and they were away. Some of them seemed so young. I was sure they couldn’t be eighteen. I said so, quietly, to Mrs Daunt, one of the older volunteers.

‘I’m quite certain they’re not,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve heard that a lot of young men lied about their age to join the army.’ She shook her head. ‘Their poor mothers …’

At the end of our shift Lady Bellamy called us all together. ‘Some of the boys,’ she said, ‘have told me of friends in hospital who would greatly appreciate a visit from our ladies. I am certain they would also appreciate some newspapers and magazines, and perhaps someone to write a letter for them. Flora –’ She looked at me. ‘You wrote a letter for a young soldier today. Would you be willing to visit some of our boys in hospital?’

‘Yes,’ I said, rather reluctantly, but I said it. ‘Yes, I could manage a few visits.’

‘Excellent,’ said Lady Bellamy. ‘I shall draw up a roster.’

A few days later I found myself in the middle of Cairo, walking into the Egyptian Army Hospital at the Citadel. As it was a British hospital I’d expected only British patients, but there were Australians and New Zealanders here as well. I’d brought an armful of magazines, a basket with boxes of chocolates and biscuits, materials to write letters, and instructions from Lady Bellamy about not tiring seriously ill patients and not spending too long with any one soldier.

A stiffly starched English matron eyed me with suspicion. ‘Just who sent you?’ she demanded.

‘Lady Bellamy,’ I replied.

She unstiffened slightly. She called a nurse and asked her to take me to a ward. ‘Not the infectious ward, of course,’ she added sternly.

The nurse rolled her eyes at me as we moved off. ‘I could have worked that out all by myself,’ she murmured.

Her uniform was very like Lydia Herschell’s, the nurse Gwen and I had met at Shepheard’s. ‘You’re Australian,’ I said. ‘What are you doing in a British army hospital?’

‘Oh, some of us were sent here as soon as we arrived, to help out until the Australian hospitals are organised,’ she said.

‘And are you liking it?’ I asked as we walked down a corridor.

‘We’re not kept very busy,’ she said, reminding me of Lydia. ‘These cases aren’t usually serious. Still, I won’t take you too near the influenza or the measles patients!’

‘You don’t know a nurse called Lydia Herschell, do you?’ I asked.

‘Why, yes,’ the nurse said. ‘Lydia’s on this ward. Are you old friends?’

‘No, we met recently,’ I said.

‘Lydia’s a grand girl,’ the nurse said warmly. ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’ She put out her hand. ‘I’m Emily Lidgard.’ We shook hands.

Lydia wasn’t on the ward at the moment. Emily introduced me to the other nurses and busied herself while I did my rounds. Two of the patients were French. I’d learned French at school, but I found it a stretch to speak to real Frenchmen and be understood. We did a lot of smiling.

I was made most welcome by the Australian patients – purely for my accent.

‘Great to hear a real Aussie voice!’ one of the Australian boys said.

‘But you have Australian nurses, don’t you?’ I said.

‘Just a few, not enough of them. The rumour is they’ll be going to a big, new Australian hospital out by the pyramids.’

That got my attention. ‘You don’t know where, exactly?’

The soldier was vague. ‘I think a hotel is being converted into a hospital.’

Our hotel was the only one near the pyramids. It seemed we’d be moving soon.

The chocolates and biscuits were very popular, as were the magazines. I handed out copies of the British
The War Pictorial
and
The War Illustrated
as well as the Australian
The Bulletin
. The most popular magazine, however, was an Australian publication:
Motor Cycling
. It seemed the patients were happy to forget about the war for a while, and contemplate motor cycles instead.

I’d been around the ward and was about to leave when Lydia came bustling through the door. ‘Flora!’ she exclaimed. ‘Well, fancy meeting my partner in crime here!’

The patients sat up and took notice. ‘Partner in crime?’

‘Tell us about it, nurse!’

Lydia glanced at me. I shrugged. I didn’t mind if she told them. Lydia gave the whole ward the story of her encouraging Gwen and me to try our first cigarettes.

The patients were laughing when the matron appeared at the door. ‘Well, you’ve certainly cheered everyone up,’ she said to me. It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment.

‘I’ll be happy to come and do it again,’ I said.

‘Come again!’

‘Come soon!’

‘Bring your American friend!’ the soldiers called. The matron did not look as if another visit from me was something she’d look forward to.

‘I’ll say hello to Lady Bellamy for you, shall I?’ I suggested. That should take care of her, I thought.

Lydia walked me out.

‘The men said you’d be moving to an Australian hospital by the pyramids soon,’ I probed.

‘I’ll be happy when it happens,’ said Lydia. ‘Working for the British isn’t my idea of a good time.’ She stopped and faced me. ‘Speaking of good times, a group of nurses and officers are going on a picnic to the pyramids soon. Would you and Gwen like to come?’

Why not? I thought. A picnic with Australians would be fun.

‘I’ll have to check with Gwen, and her mother,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure Mrs Travers won’t object to us going with a group of nurses.’ I wouldn’t emphasise the Australian officers, I thought.

We made arrangements, and I went down the steps of the hospital where Mr Hussein was waiting for me. Soon, I thought, I’ll have a motorcar of my own and won’t have to be collected every time I want to go somewhere.

‘Could I drive?’ I asked eagerly.

‘Be very careful with the traffic,’ he cautioned. ‘It is much busier in the city than out by the pyramids. Steer carefully.’

I threaded my way through the streets, between donkeys, horse-drawn carriages, the occasional camel and motorcar. My mind, though, wasn’t entirely on my driving. Would Mr Khalid find us somewhere to stay in time?

Chapter 6

‘Yes,’ Mr Khalid said. ‘I have been giving this a great deal of thought.’

I looked at him expectantly. ‘You’ve found us another hotel?’

‘No,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘Finding a hotel has been impossible, sadly. The hotels are full, or they are being requisitioned by the military.’

I hadn’t thought anything was impossible for Mr Khalid. ‘What are we going to do then? We can’t give up and go back to Australia. Fa would rather live in a tent.’ Goodness, I thought. I hoped that wasn’t the solution.

‘He will not have to,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘I have an alternative which I think will be acceptable. Would you like to see it?’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I think you should see first,’ Mr Khalid said. ‘Mr Wentworth told me he was too busy to come. He is happy to leave it to you.’

Mr Hussein drove us towards the city. I wondered what Mr Khalid had found. A guesthouse on one of the islands in the river? A houseboat, even? But we drove past the river and further into the city. As we entered the bazaar area the streets began to narrow. Walls rose high above our heads, gradually shutting out the sky. Washing flapped above us. Scents of incense and spicy cooking floated into the car. Shadows slid along the walls as people passed by. Soon we were so far into the city the streets were in permanent twilight and only isolated rays of sunlight found their way to the ground.

We drove through a street filled with beaten copperware, the
ting! ting!
of workers wielding small hammers rising all around us. The next housed a community of fabric dyers, and yards and yards of dripping, drying fabrics hung around and above us. We passed down a street of spice merchants, and baskets of brilliantly coloured spices filled the air with their fragrance.

We made an awkward turn into another street, too narrow for the motorcar to pass through, and Mr Hussein pulled up.

‘Now we must walk,’ said Mr Khalid.

I got out and looked up. Above me, on every house, were latticed balconies called
mashrabiya
. Behind them, women would be watching all that went on in the street without being observed themselves. The sun, I thought, would never reach this street.

We walked on and I wondered where we could be going. There couldn’t possibly be a hotel or guesthouse for Europeans in this area!

We’d only been walking for a minute when Mr Khalid stopped before an ancient, massive wooden door. ‘We are here,’ he said, and rang a bell hanging beside the door. There was an iron-grilled window to one side of the door, with copper cups on metal chains dangling from it.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Water for the poor,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘Just behind the window there is a well, and it is an old tradition that a basin is filled with water from it so all who have need may drink.’

Rattling sounded behind the door and a smaller door, set in the large one, creaked open. A man in a white robe stood there. He bowed deeply to Mr Khalid and Mr Khalid nodded.

‘This is Bilal,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘He is the caretaker.’