Nightingales at War (13 page)

‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I reckon we’ll definitely be seeing each other again.’

‘
AND DID I
tell you about the band? Snakehips Johnson, the bandleader’s called. He’s famous, so Johnny said. Been on the BBC and everything. Honestly, Cis, I’ve never heard music like it. And the way he moved—’

‘So you’ve said,’ Cissy sighed.

It was Monday morning, and they were walking to the hospital together, up Old Ford Road. It wasn’t yet seven o’clock, but the sun was already high in the sky, promising another bright, hot July day.

‘And the champagne . . . did I tell you about that? I had three glasses, and they went straight to my head! You would have laughed if you’d been there,’ Jennifer giggled. ‘And the oysters! They were so expensive, but Johnny insisted on ordering them, just because I said I wanted to try them . . .’

She didn’t add that they’d tasted horrible, or that she had been up most of the night being ill.

She didn’t mention she’d made a fool of herself by lunging at Johnny for a messy kiss either. There were some things even her best friend didn’t need to know.

Besides, she wanted Cissy to be impressed. Although she wasn’t showing much sign of it at the moment. She was listening to Jennifer’s stories with an indifferent expression, as if going up west and drinking champagne was something that happened to them every day.

‘Talk about how the other half lives!’ she tried again. ‘There were so many rich and famous people there. And Johnny seemed to know them all. They kept stopping at our table to talk to him, and of course he introduced me . . . I felt like royalty, I really did!’

‘I know, you told me.’

Jennifer glanced sideways at Cissy’s face, and wondered if perhaps she’d gone on about it too much. After all, this was the third time she’d told her friend about it since Saturday morning. But then, she’d listened to Cissy going on about her Paul for the past year, and that was a lot less interesting than the tale Jennifer had to tell.

Perhaps Cissy was jealous. After all, she had never been to the Café de Paris, or drunk champagne. And Paul Maynard could barely afford the bus fare up west, let alone a swanky car!

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘I thought you’d be pleased for me?’

Cissy was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘So how has he come by all this money?’

‘I told you, Johnny’s a businessman. Supply and demand.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand,’ Jennifer replied airily. She wasn’t about to admit that Johnny hadn’t told her.

‘I don’t reckon your dad would understand, either.’

Jennifer sighed. ‘You sound like my mum!’

‘I’m just saying, I don’t think your dad would approve of you courting an older man.’

‘He’s not that much older,’ Jennifer defended. ‘Besides, the King of England could come courting me and my dad wouldn’t approve! Honestly, Cis, I thought you’d be pleased for me. You’re always on at me to find myself a boyfriend.’

‘That depends on the boyfriend, doesn’t it?’ Cissy muttered.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Couldn’t you find yourself a nice young man, Jen?’

Like yours, you mean? Jennifer thought sourly. ‘Johnny
is
nice.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘Neither do you.’

They walked the rest of Old Ford Road in silence, Jennifer seething with resentment. Why did Cissy have to act as if she was better than her, just because her boyfriend was in the Royal Navy?

Jennifer had been so looking forward to telling her friend all about her big night – it had always been part of the fun for her, sharing all the details. But then Cissy had taken the wind right out of her sails on Saturday afternoon by rushing round with a letter she’d had from Paul. Jennifer’s mum and dad and brother had been there, and Elsie Caldwell had poured Cissy a cup of tea and sat her down at the table and soon the whole family was listening agog as she read how Paul’s convoy had narrowly escaped being sunk by a German U-boat in the Atlantic.

They’d all lapped it up, sitting around the table, listening to her eagerly.

‘Your young man’s a hero,’ Alec Caldwell declared. ‘He deserves a medal, I reckon.’

Jennifer had listened and tried to smile and looked interested, but inside she was cross because she knew she would never be able to boast about Johnny to them. Cissy was right, her father would never be impressed by him, no matter how wealthy and successful he was.

It wasn’t fair, she thought. She was sure Johnny would have willingly gone off and done his bit if he’d had the chance. It wasn’t his fault he was an invalid.

The two girls didn’t speak again until they said a curt goodbye to each other at the hospital gates and went off to their respective wards.

‘I’ll see you at lunchtime,’ Cissy called out, but Jennifer was too cross to reply. She was still smarting after her friend’s comments. Cissy might not approve of Johnny, but at least she could be pleased for Jennifer. She was supposed to be her best mate, after all, and best mates stuck together.

Walking on to the ward, she was greeted by a chorus of catcalls from the soldiers. A few weeks of rest, good food and nursing care had been enough to restore their spirits. Even though their injuries were still severe, they had started to behave like young men again, teasing and flirting with the nurses.

‘Look out, lads, it’s Vivien Leigh!’

‘How’s my favourite nurse this morning?’

‘Looking lovely this morning, Nurse!’

Jennifer pretended to take no notice, but she couldn’t help smiling to herself as she headed down the ward.

But the smile was knocked off her face a moment later when Nurse Riley stepped out of the kitchen and confronted her.

‘You’re late,’ she snapped. ‘Get changed immediately and go and help the night staff clear away the breakfast. Then you can make a start on cleaning the ward. The floor will need polishing this morning.’

‘Good morning to you, too,’ Jennifer muttered, when Nurse Riley was safely out of earshot.

‘Best to stay out of her way,’ Daisy Bushell advised, coming up behind Jennifer. ‘Miss Hanley’s inspecting the ward first thing, and it’s put everyone in an awful mood.’

‘I wish she’d leave it to Matron,’ Jennifer said. Miss Fox’s daily visits to the ward were quite jolly in comparison to the Assistant Matron’s weekly swoops.

Next to rinsing out the bedpans and scrubbing the blood off mackintosh sheets, polishing the floor had become one of Jennifer’s least favourite jobs.

She and Daisy started by pushing all the beds from one side of the ward into the centre. Then came the strenuous use of the buffer, a block of wood on the end of a six-foot pole, with a piece of felt attached. Jennifer’s job was to spatter polish over the floor, then swing the buffer from side to side, reversing down the ward. It was terribly cumbersome, and when her arms began to ache, the pole slipped and the buffer collided with the soldiers’ beds, rattling the frames and making them groan and swear in pain.

‘Oi! Watch what you’re doing with that bloody thing!’

‘Christ Almighty, don’t you think I’m in enough pain without you making it worse?’

‘I can’t help it,’ Jennifer shot back. ‘You should try, it’s more difficult than it looks.’

‘You there! What do you think you’re doing?’

Just her luck, at that moment Miss Hanley rounded the corner with Sister Holmes and Nurse Riley in tow. In the month she had been there, Jennifer was sure Miss Hanley hadn’t taken the trouble to learn her name. She was always ‘you there’ or ‘wretched girl’.

‘What do you think you’re doing, disturbing the patients?’

As if the Assistant Matron’s bellowing like a wounded bull wasn’t disturbing them, Jennifer thought crossly. But she’d learned it was never a good idea to answer Miss Hanley back, no matter how much Jennifer might feel she was in the right. So she stood and waited as the Assistant Matron bore down on her from the other end of the ward, marching like a drill sergeant, arms swinging, feet stomping.

Jennifer noticed the patch of polish on the floor a second before Miss Hanley’s sturdy brogue landed in it. She tried to cry out but shock rendered her speechless as the Assistant Matron’s foot slithered away from under her. She caught a disturbing glimpse of directoire knickers as Miss Hanley’s legs went up in the air and she landed heavily in a heap at Jennifer’s feet.

In the fuss that followed, with nurses rushing to haul her upright, Jennifer could only stare down at her shoes and fight the urge to laugh. She knew she would suffer for it, but somehow she still couldn’t stop herself. Her eyes watered from the effort of keeping her face straight. It didn’t help that the soldiers were all roaring at the sight of the Assistant Matron sprawled on her well-upholstered backside.

When Jennifer finally risked a glance upwards, Miss Hanley was on her feet again, the picture of wounded, red-faced pride.

Nurse Riley appeared at Jennifer’s shoulder. ‘Make yourself scarce,’ she hissed.

‘But I haven’t finished—’

‘Go. Now.’

She didn’t need telling twice. Jennifer fled from the ward, down the passageway to the only place she knew no one would look for her – Mr Chandler’s room.

Philip Stuart Chandler was the name of the airman. Jennifer had read it on his notes. She also knew that he was twenty-three years old, a flight sergeant from Hampshire, stationed on the south coast. His next-of-kin were his parents, Eileen and Donald Chandler. She also knew that he had lost three fingers from his left hand and most of the flesh from his face and upper body when his aircraft caught fire.

Jennifer had found out a lot about him in the times she’d taken refuge in his room. She often went there to escape when Sister Holmes was in one of her moods. She liked the darkness, the peace and quiet, and the unhurried sound of Flight Sergeant Chandler’s breathing. Sometimes she would sit at his bedside and stare at him, wondering what he had once looked like.

She went to his bedside and picked up his wrist, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingers. His right hand was surprisingly unblemished, with a fine network of dark hairs on his strong forearm.

‘Hello?’

Jennifer dropped his wrist and jumped back at the sound of a muffled voice coming from the bed. She’d wondered so often what his voice might sound like, she almost thought she’d imagined it.

But no, the figure in the bed was stirring, shifting against the pillows.

‘Hello? Are you there? I know you’re there, I can smell your perfume. Who are you?’

‘I – I don’t know. I mean – I’m not supposed to be here . . . wait there, I’ll fetch someone . . .’

She fled the room, straight into the arms of Miss Hanley, who was coming up the corridor with Sister Holmes.

‘You again!’ The Assistant Matron glared at her, but Jennifer was too flustered to care.

‘He’s awake!’ she blurted out, interrupting Miss Hanley. ‘Mr Chandler’s woken up, and he – he’s talking!’

Sister Holmes stared at her as if she were quite mad. ‘Well, of course he’s woken up,’ she said. ‘Mr Cooper has reduced his sedation. We’re bringing him round. Although what you were doing in his room I have no idea,’ she added sternly.

Jennifer lingered in the passageway outside Mr Chandler’s room, listening as Sister Holmes spoke quietly to him, explaining where he was and what had happened to him. Their voices were so low she couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, and she could only imagine how Philip Chandler was taking the news.

She ducked back into the sluice out of sight as Sister Holmes came out, half closing the door behind her. It was then that Jennifer remembered the duster she’d dropped as she fled Philip Chandler’s room. She only hoped Sister hadn’t spotted it, or she would be in real trouble.

She made sure the coast was clear, then opened the door as quietly as she could and tiptoed across the room to retrieve the duster. But as she was bending down to pick it up from under the bed, a voice suddenly said, ‘It’s you again.’

Jennifer straightened up slowly, the duster in her hand. She didn’t speak.

‘I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.’

Jennifer cleared her throat nervously. ‘I – I just came to fetch this.’ She held up the duster, then realised that he couldn’t see it. ‘Sorry for disturbing you.’

‘That’s all right. You’ve been in here quite often, haven’t you?’

‘How did you know?’

‘I recognise your perfume. I thought I was dreaming it, but now I know it was real. You’re real.’

There were footsteps coming up the passageway. ‘I have to go,’ Jennifer said. ‘I’m not supposed to be in here.’

‘Why not?’

Sister Holmes was calling her name now. ‘I’ve got to go, or I really will be in trouble.’

She’d reached the door when he said, ‘Wait.’

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. ‘What?’

‘What is that perfume?’

Jennifer smiled, in spite of herself. ‘Evening in Paris.’

‘Evening in Paris,’ he repeated softly. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘
HONESTLY, I’VE NEVER
seen her like this. She’s usually the last person to lose her head over a man, but she’s fallen for him hook, line and sinker. It’s like he’s cast a spell over her, or something . . .’

Eve and Cissy sat together in the small area off the Emergency Treatment Room, making up the dressings. It was the first job in Casualty every morning.

‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with this Johnny, I’m just saying she should look before she leaps for a change. Although, of course, you can’t tell Jen anything . . .’ Cissy continued, snipping away at a large roll of gauze. ‘But there’s definitely something not quite right about him. I mean, where does he get all that money from? A businessman, Jen calls him. Funny business, if you ask me!’

Eve made what she hoped was a suitably sympathetic noise as she folded a piece of lint and packed it into the drum. She couldn’t think of anything useful or interesting to say, but just listening seemed to be enough for Cissy when she was in one of her talkative moods.

‘I’m sure she thinks I’m jealous,’ she said. ‘But what do I have to be jealous of, when I’ve got my Paul?’

‘You’re just worried about her, that’s all,’ Eve put in.

‘Exactly!’ Cissy nodded. ‘I’m worried about her. You’ve hit the nail right on the head there, Evie.’

Evie. It was the first time anyone had called her that, and Eve savoured it. Anyone listening to them now might even think they were friends, she thought. Two friends gossiping together, the way Cissy and Jennifer gossiped.

‘How is your Paul?’ She chose her next topic carefully, not wanting to ruin the moment.

But she knew she was on safe ground with Cissy’s boyfriend. He was all she ever wanted to talk about. ‘I had another letter from him this morning,’ she said. ‘I brought it with me, look.’ She pulled the blue envelope from inside the bib of her apron. ‘I always keep his letters next to my heart,’ she sighed. ‘Would you like me to read it to you?’

Eve glanced nervously at the door. ‘I’m not sure if we should . . .’ she whispered. But Cissy was already pulling the letter out of the envelope and unfolding it.

Eve sat rolling bits of cotton wool into swabs on her knees as Cissy read out a long section of Paul’s letter. It was difficult to make out what he was talking about half the time as there were so many names Eve didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. She felt as if she were being given a glimpse into a new and fascinating world, full of love and romance and fun. She was sure Cissy’s life must be every bit as exciting as any novel.

Halfway through her letter, Cissy stopped abruptly and said, ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me reading this?’

‘Of course not? Why should I?’

‘I dunno . . . Jen always says I go on about him too much. I know I’m probably boring . . .’

‘Not at all, I like hearing about it,’ Eve assured her, and meant every word.

Cissy sent her a considering look. ‘You know, you’re a much better listener than Jen. I know she’s my best mate, but between you and me, she only stops talking about herself long enough to draw breath!’

‘I much prefer listening to talking,’ Eve replied truthfully. ‘Carry on, anyway – what else does Paul say?’

They spent the next ten minutes dissecting the contents of his letter, looking for hidden meanings behind his words. Eve was astonished at how much Cissy could read into a simple letter. She became quite giddy with it, and Eve was pleased to be taken into her confidence.

So pleased that she didn’t hesitate later when Cissy asked her to treat a young boy whose scalp was crawling with lice.

‘Be a mate?’ Cissy had begged, and Eve was happy to oblige. As far as she was concerned, she really was Cissy’s friend after their talk that morning.

But then, of course, when it was time for their break, Cissy immediately rushed off to join Jennifer for another of their private conversations. All Cissy’s resentment against her friend seemed to disappear into thin air as soon as they saw each other. Eve watched them walking together with their arms firmly linked, laughing over something, and tried not to mind. She wished Jennifer would be as friendly towards her as Cissy was, then perhaps she would be allowed to join in. She would like nothing more than to walk with them, her arms linked in theirs.

She returned to the Casualty Hall to find Oliver Stanton there, waiting with an empty wheelchair. She’d seen him a few times over the past two weeks, but only to nod to from a distance. Now he was blocking her way, and she would have no option but to speak to him. As Eve approached, she thought how very different he looked in his brown porter’s overalls, his tousled fair hair shorn neatly over his ears.

He was staring out of the window across the courtyard, deep in thought. Eve was debating with herself whether she should speak to him when he suddenly looked up and saw her.

‘Hello,’ he greeted her. His faraway look was suddenly gone, replaced by a genuine smile.

‘Hello.’ Suddenly self-conscious, Eve searched for something to say. ‘You’ve had your hair cut,’ she blurted out finally.

He reached up to touch his bare ears. ‘Mr Hopkins prefers all his new recruits to look smart,’ he said.

‘Are you – um – enjoying your job?’ Eve asked.

‘It’s – interesting.’ He chose his words carefully.

‘I suppose it’s not like being an art student in Paris, though?’

His smile faded. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it certainly isn’t.’

‘Stanton!’ a voice roared out from the other side of the Casualty Hall. They both looked round to see another porter, George Geoffries, standing in the doorway. ‘When you’ve finished your mothers’ meeting, there’s a patient waiting to go up to the ward,’ he called out. ‘If you can spare the time, that is,’ he added with a nasty glance at Eve.

‘I’m on my way.’ Oliver took a step back and manoeuvred the wheelchair round. ‘I’d best get on,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t want to upset anyone, do I?’

Eve watched him follow George out of the Casualty Hall. Neither of them spoke.

She was still watching them when Cissy came up behind her. ‘Were you talking to that porter?’ she asked.

Eve started, blushing guiltily. Cissy sounded just like Aunt Freda. ‘I wasn’t doing any harm,’ she said quickly. ‘He spoke to me, so I answered him.’

‘All the same, you shouldn’t have anything to do with him. You know what he is, don’t you?’

Eve frowned. ‘What?’

Cissy leaned forward. ‘A conchie.’ She hissed the word, her lips curling as if she could hardly bear to say it.

Eve stared at her blankly. ‘What’s that?’

‘Honestly, don’t you know anything?’ Cissy looked incredulous. ‘He’s a conscientious objector. That’s why he’s been sent to work here, because he’s refused to join up and fight.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a coward!’ Cissy spat. ‘Honestly, I can’t even stand to be near him. I think it’s a disgrace that my Paul is out there, risking his life in the service of his country, while
he’s
swanning around here. He makes me sick. And I’m not the only one who thinks like that either,’ she added. ‘None of the porters can stand him. They wouldn’t work with him if they didn’t have to.’ She tapped Eve on one shoulder with her fingertip. ‘You take my advice. Don’t have anything to do with him if you know what’s good for you.’

Eve thought about the contemptuous way the porter had shouted at him, and the look on Oliver’s face as he’d followed the other man outside. Poor Oliver, she thought. She understood all about being an outsider.