Nightingales at War (5 page)

‘He can’t help it if he’s besotted with you, can he?’

Helen smiled reluctantly. ‘All the same, he shouldn’t flirt in front of the nurses. It’s only a matter of time before Matron finds out about it.’ Her smile faded a fraction. ‘Although I don’t suppose it matters, as he’ll probably be gone before too long.’

Dora looked at her sharply. ‘I thought he’d deferred his call-up?’

‘Only because he thought he’d be needed here. But now he’s talking about signing up for the Medical Corps.’ Helen bit her lip. ‘I honestly don’t know how I’d cope if he weren’t here. It’s bad enough my brother being in the RAF, without worrying about David, too.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Dora said quietly.

She bent her head on the pretext of putting her shoes back on, but she could feel her friend watching her.

‘Oh, Dora, I’m sorry,’ Helen said. ‘Listen to me going on about my silly fears, when you’re going through just the same thing. How is Nick? Have you heard from him?’

‘Not for a while.’ Dora kept her head down, still tying her shoelaces.

‘Poor you, you must be so worried.’

Dora took a moment to compose herself, only looking up when she could trust herself to smile. ‘Oh, you know Nick. He can look after himself,’ she replied breezily. ‘Now, I meant to ask you, can you help me practise my injections? I made a right mess of my first one earlier.’

She looked into Helen’s warm brown eyes, willing her to get the message. Fortunately, her friend was wise enough to understand what Dora was trying to say to her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I can help you.’

JENNIFER HAD NO
idea making a bed could be so difficult, but the Red Cross instructor seemed to be making a right meal of it.

‘Where possible, bed making should be done by two persons,’ the woman intoned at the front of the class. ‘You must make sure you have everything to hand, and always ensure the patient is not exposed to any draught . . .’

Her gaze swept the room. She was in her fifties, her iron-grey hair tucked up into her navy blue cap. The uniform did nothing for her, Jennifer thought. She decided there and then that if nursing meant putting her feet into those ugly brogues, then she would have none of it.

‘Blimey, I’ve never heard so much fuss over making a bed, have you?’ she whispered to Cissy, who stood at her side.

Cissy nudged her. ‘Shh, you’ll get us kicked out before we’ve even started!’

‘Place a chair a yard from the foot of the bedstead,’ the instructor continued. ‘Remove the pillows and untuck the bedclothes . . .’

Jennifer tried to listen attentively as the woman went on to explain how to make a bed with an immobile patient lying in it, but it was all too much like school for her liking, and she found her attention wandering.

She looked round the church hall. It was full of young girls like her and Cissy, plus a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit who looked like a spinster librarian.

‘Take off the bedclothes one at a time, folding the upper corners to the lower corners, lift and place them on the chair . . .’

Jennifer’s gaze snagged on a young girl standing at the back of the class, her back pressed against the wall. She was an odd little thing. It was hard to tell if she was pretty or not as her face was mostly hidden behind a drab curtain of mousy hair. Her slight frame was swamped by a shapeless skirt and blouse.

She caught Jennifer staring and looked away quickly, ducking her head.

‘Now it’s your turn.’ Jennifer came back to the present just in time to hear the instructor’s final words. ‘Get into pairs, please, and we’ll take turns making a bed without disturbing the patient.’

Jennifer grabbed Cissy’s arm straight away. ‘I hope you were listening to what she said, because I wasn’t,’ she whispered.

‘I tried,’ Cissy hissed back. ‘But it can’t be that difficult, can it?’

As it turned out, it was harder than it looked.

The dummy was surprisingly heavy, with contrary limbs that seemed to flop about exactly where Jennifer didn’t want them. How had the instructor made it look so easy? she wondered, as she struggled to loosen the bedding while the dummy leaned drunkenly against her shoulder.

And it didn’t help that the teacher stood over them, barking instructions. ‘No, no, roll the soiled sheet towards the patient’s shoulders . . . tuck the ends of the clean sheet in before you try to lift the patient . . . support her, for heaven’s sake!’ The back of Jennifer’s neck began to prickle with sweat as the instructor kept up a running commentary of criticism.

Finally, it was over. Jennifer and Cissy eyed each other despairingly across the bed as the teacher inspected their work with a disapproving frown. ‘Well, you didn’t let the patient fall out of bed, which is something,’ she sighed. ‘But no self-respecting ward sister will tolerate those wrinkled sheets. The patient would have bedsores in no time.’ She looked around the room. ‘Would anyone else like to try? How about you?’ She picked out the mousy-haired girl standing at the back. ‘And you.’ She pointed at a middle-aged woman. ‘Come on, don’t be shy. You’ve all got to have a go some time.’

The girl stepped forward to the centre of the circle, her gaze fixed on the ground. Close to, she looked even more odd. Behind her curtain of hair was a little face with a pointed chin and wide-spaced grey eyes the colour of dirty dishwater. She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, not even a dab of powder, Jennifer noted with astonishment.

She and the middle-aged spinster seemed nervous at first as they faced each other across the bed. But once they started, they quickly got into their stride. They worked in perfect unison, removing pillows, untucking bedclothes, folding the upper corners to the lower corners then lifting them carefully, the girl putting her half down on the chair before the older woman did hers.

The instructor watched them approvingly. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘You see how they’re working together? It makes the job so much easier.’

The girl deftly rolled the soiled sheet down and had the clean sheet smoothed in its place before her partner had even managed to lift the dummy’s shoulders.

But it was her appearance, not her bed-making skills, that took Jennifer’s attention. She looked as if she had been making do and mending far longer than anyone else. The frayed collar of her blouse had been repaired several times with row upon row of careful little stitches. The flowery pattern had faded with washing to little more than smudges on the thin fabric. Jennifer wouldn’t have been seen dead in it.

‘Look at her,’ she whispered to Cissy. ‘Have you ever seen anyone dress like that? I know there’s a war on, but you’d think she’d make some effort, wouldn’t you?’

‘At least she can make a bed,’ Cissy said.

‘She looks like she’s just fallen out of one, with that hair.’

Cissy snorted with laughter. The instructor whipped round to face them.

‘Pay attention, please. You might learn something,’ she snapped, her grey brows drawing together over her hooked nose.

The girl and her partner continued, but the girl’s movements seemed slower, more faltering. Jennifer wondered if she’d heard her comment.

Finally, they finished and stepped back for the instructor to inspect their work. She paced around their bed, bending down to inspect the neatly tucked corners, and smoothing her hand over the sheet. Then she asked them their names.

‘Eve Ainsley, Miss,’ the girl whispered, flinching as if she had been struck.

‘This is excellent work, Miss Ainsley.’ The instructor smiled at her. ‘I couldn’t have done better myself, and I’ve been in the Red Cross for thirty years!’ She turned and addressed the rest of the room. ‘Everyone, please look at what Miss Ainsley and her partner have done. This is the kind of standard we expect from our volunteers.’

Eve kept her gaze fixed on the floor, but Jennifer could see her blushing deeply. She couldn’t imagine why. If she’d been praised she would have made sure she enjoyed every second of it.

Not that there was much chance of that. She couldn’t seem to do a thing right as for the next two hours they made and remade beds, stripping them off, folding mattresses, dusting bedsprings and wiping down bedsteads. By the end of it, Jennifer’s arms ached so much she could barely lift them and she was feeling thoroughly disgruntled.

‘I’m really not sure I want to be a VAD after all, if it’s that difficult,’ she grumbled as they left the class just after eight o’clock. The evening air was cool, and darkness hadn’t yet fallen, so at least they could still see where they were going.

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Cissy said.

‘My dad was right. It isn’t real nursing. We’re just glorified skivvies. I don’t want to spend all my time making beds and sweeping floors.’

‘All the same, we’ve got to do our bit,’ Cissy replied.

Jennifer stared at her friend. ‘Why are you taking it so seriously all of a sudden?’ she asked. ‘It was supposed to be a laugh!’

‘We need to take it seriously,’ Cissy said. ‘We could be looking after real casualties one day. Sooner than we think, if the news is anything to go by . . .’

‘Not again!’ Jennifer sighed, irritated.

The news that the Germans had launched an attack on France had galvanised everyone. Suddenly there were ARP wardens on every corner, Jennifer’s father had joined the new Local Defence Volunteers, and her mother was terrified. She was certain they were going to wake up any day and find German soldiers at the end of their beds. She had started to carry her gas mask again, and forced Jennifer to dig hers out from where it had been gathering dust on top of the wardrobe.

‘If the Germans are going to invade then I wish they’d get it over with, because I’m sick and tired of all this doom and gloom!’

‘You can’t say that!’ Cissy looked shocked.

‘Can’t I? At least then this wretched war would stop. We wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark any more, and we might get some decent food to eat. And we wouldn’t have to mess about making beds either!’

‘You wouldn’t say that if the man you loved was out at sea, fighting for his country,’ Cissy said.

The pious look on her face made Jennifer snap, ‘Oh, here we go again!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing,’ Jennifer muttered.

‘I can’t help being worried, can I? Paul’s out there somewhere, and I don’t know where he is or whether he’s safe.’ Cissy’s voice trembled. ‘I know you think I go on about it, but I can’t help it.’

Jennifer sent her a sideways glance. She had never seen her friend so upset. Cissy was usually so much fun.

‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘Sorry for snapping, Cis. I didn’t mean to upset you. You know I’d be just the same if I were in your shoes. Worse, if anything. And you can go on about it as much as you like,’ she said. ‘I’m your mate, and from now on I promise I’ll listen to you all you want.’

‘And I’ll try to stop moaning so much,’ Cissy said, her mouth twisting.

‘It’s a deal.’ Jennifer grinned. ‘In that case, why don’t we go to the flicks tomorrow and cheer ourselves up?’

‘Are you sure we shouldn’t stay at home and practise our bed-making?’ Cissy suggested wryly.

‘You’re joking, ain’t you? I’ve got better things to do with my time, thanks very much! Anyway, what do you fancy seeing at the pictures?’ Jennifer changed the subject. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing that new Deanna Durbin film. You know I’ve always liked Deanna . . .’

‘
WHERE DO YOU
think you’ve been?’

Eve closed the front door and braced herself, seconds before her Aunt Freda’s silhouette appeared in the lighted kitchen doorway at the end of the passageway.

She forced brightness into her voice as she shrugged off her coat. ‘My nursing class, Aunt. I told you it started this week.’

Her aunt advanced down the narrow, darkened passageway towards her. The fading light through the coloured fanlight cast jewelled stripes of green and red across her pinched face.

‘You’re later than you said you’d be,’ she accused.

‘I had to wait a long time for the bus, Aunt.’ Eve hung up her coat and hat on the hallstand. As she turned round, her aunt was standing close to her, so close Eve could see the deep lines etched around her narrowed eyes.

‘I’ll know if you’re lying to me, my girl. I can always tell a liar.’ She stared down her long, pointed nose.

‘I’m not, Aunt, I promise.’

‘Deceit is in your bones, child. You are your mother’s daughter, when all is said and done. Evil begets evil.’

Eve hung her head. ‘Yes, Aunt.’

She tensed, waiting. But to her relief, Aunt Freda turned and headed back down the passageway to the kitchen. ‘Your tea’s in the oven,’ she snapped over her shoulder.

‘Thank you, Aunt.’

Eve’s heart sank at the sight of the congealed dollop of greasy stew and grey mashed potatoes on her plate. But she knew better than to leave it, especially with Aunt Freda watching her. Waste not, want not, her aunt always said. At least there wasn’t much of it, Eve consoled herself as she wrapped a tea towel around her hand and carried the hot plate to the kitchen table. For once she was grateful for her aunt’s stinginess.

She picked up her knife and fork, but her aunt’s bony hand flashed out and locked around her wrist, gripping like a vice. Eve jumped, her fork falling from her hand.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Aunt Freda said. ‘Or are you so above yourself you don’t need to thank the Lord any more?’

Eve looked into her aunt’s cold grey eyes and realised her mistake. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. Her aunt released her grip and Eve locked her own hands together, bowing her head as she waited for her aunt to start her prayer.

‘Heavenly Father, we humbly thank thee,’ Aunt Freda intoned solemnly. ‘Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty . . .’

Eve risked opening one eye and watched her aunt’s thin lips moving. She could have sworn her prayers went on longer each time.

‘And grant forgiveness to thy servant Eve, that she may become worthy of thy grace, though she may be steeped in sin . . .’

Eve shut out her aunt’s words, and thought instead about the First Aid class, and how the instructor had praised her work. Eve glowed with quiet pride, remembering her words. She so rarely received a word of praise, she nursed it like a precious jewel, keeping it tucked away and taking it out to enjoy every now and again.

Finally Aunt Freda ran out of steam, and ended her prayer with a heavy and meaningful ‘Amen’. Eve waited for a moment, then picked up her knife and fork again. But her aunt still wasn’t ready to leave her in peace. She sat at the table, her arms folded, and reeled off a list of jobs that needed to be done.

‘We’ve had a lot of mending come in today,’ she said. ‘When you’ve finished your tea you’d best get down to the workshop and make a start.’

Eve looked up in dismay. Usually she wouldn’t have dreamed of contradicting her aunt, but she was weary and the thought of going down to the dark cellar filled her with horror. ‘Can’t they wait until tomorrow morning, Aunt?’ she pleaded.

Aunt Freda’s eyes hardened. ‘Are you giving the orders around here now?’ she snapped.

‘No, but I’m quite tired—’

‘Well, I can’t help that, can I? I’ve told the customers they can pick them up in the morning, and I’m as good as my word. If we don’t give them a good service they’ll end up going elsewhere, and then where will we be?’ She glared at Eve. ‘And there’s no need to look at me like that. It’s not my fault if you choose to go gallivanting off to First Aid classes when you’re needed here, is it?’

Eve thought about explaining again that it wasn’t her choice, she had been ordered to do war work. But what was the point? Aunt Freda never listened.

‘No, Aunt,’ she agreed heavily. She tuned out her aunt’s critical voice and stared up at the heavy wooden cross over the mantelpiece, the only adornment in the bare, cheerless room.

‘You’ve got to earn your keep,’ Aunt Freda continued. ‘We’re not made of money, and since I’ve been good enough to take you in, the least you can do is try to make yourself useful!’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

After tea, Eve washed up her plate. She started when she accidentally caught sight of herself in the speckled scrap of mirror over the sink. She looked such a scare, no wonder that girl Jennifer had given her such a scathing look.

No one in their right mind could ever have called her pretty, or even attractive. Her skin was so pale and washed out, it was almost the colour of the greying dishcloth she held in her hands. Her thick eyebrows sat low and straight over a pair of sad, tired eyes. She was only nineteen, but she looked like a careworn woman of thirty.

She wondered what she would look like if she wore make-up like Jennifer and Cissy. But then they were pretty to start with. She doubted if anything could ever improve her unremarkable looks . . .

‘You’ll crack that mirror if you stare at yourself much longer.’ Eve caught sight of her aunt’s reflection over her shoulder and ducked her head guiltily.

‘Sorry, Aunt.’

‘Your mother was very fond of looking in the mirror, too. Always admiring herself, she was. And look what happened to her.’

Eve let her gaze drop to the worn wooden draining board. She knew very little about her mother, apart from what her aunt had told her. All she knew was that Lizzie Marshall had fallen pregnant outside wedlock, that she’d given birth to Eve in secret and then died of childbed fever – ‘or shame, more like’, as her aunt always said. Aunt Freda and Uncle Roland had then taken Eve in and brought her up as their own child, since they had none of their own.

Aunt Freda never missed a chance to remind Eve where she’d come from, or that her mother was a sinful whore who’d brought scandal down on her respectable family.

‘She was no sister of mine,’ she always said. But Eve secretly preferred to think of her mother as a young woman who had been led astray and made a mistake, and not the reckless wanton her aunt always painted her as.

But whatever the truth, Eve knew she owed her aunt everything. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Freda taking her in, she would have ended up in the workhouse. Instead her aunt had given her a home and respectability.

Eve sometimes wondered if she might have led an easier life in the orphanage, but she would never have dared say such a thing.

After she’d finished washing up, she went down to the workshop. A rush of icy air came up to greet her as she opened the heavy door and stepped into the gaping dark mouth of the cellar. There was no light switch at the top, so she had to inch her way down the narrow wooden staircase all the way to the bottom in pitch blackness, her left hand pressed against the rough brickwork to steady herself. The wood creaked under her feet at every step, deafening in the silence. Eve forced her feet forward, knowing that if she stopped for a moment her nerve would fail her.

Once, her aunt had recounted the grim story of how her great-grandfather’s apprentice had killed himself down here. Spurned by his sweetheart, he had hung himself from the low beams.

‘My grandfather found him swinging the next morning,’ Aunt Freda told Eve. The story haunted her, and when she was very young and her aunt used to lock her in the cellar as punishment, Eve would cower in the corner, terrified that his unhappy corpse would find her in the darkness. Even now she still feared the dark, and working late in the workshop she would jump at every creak and groan. The smell of damp was like the stench of death to her.

After what seemed like a lifetime, her feet found the last step and she fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on. The weak light from the single bulb cast eerie shadows over the deep recesses of the cellar, illuminating the grey damp patches blooming on the whitewashed brickwork.

Eve hurried across to her worktable and lit the lamps, comforted by the extra glow they offered. But her heart sank when she saw all the clothes piled up beside the table, ready for mending. Most of it looked like hand sewing, which was particularly tiring to do by the weak lamplight. There was enough to keep her busy until after midnight.

Wearily, Eve sat down at the sewing machine and got out her needles, thread and scissors, ready to begin. She had learned the tailoring trade from her aunt’s husband, Uncle Roland. It was really Aunt Freda’s shop, passed down from her father, but she had married his apprentice and together they had run the business until Uncle Roland died six years earlier.

Poor Uncle Roland. Why such a kind, gentle man had ever married someone like Aunt Freda, Eve didn’t know. Perhaps the rumours were true and he had been after her money and her shop? But if that was the case, his plans had gone badly wrong. Uncle Roland had been under Aunt Freda’s thumb as much as Eve was. Her aunt had bullied him mercilessly, treating him more as a glorified employee than as her husband.

But he’d taken it all meekly, just as Eve did. They both knew that it was no use fighting Freda. She had God and a vicious tongue on her side.

At any rate, Uncle Roland had passed his skills on to Eve, teaching her how to cut patterns, how to tailor a garment to the body, how to mend, stitch, pleat, dart and transform an old, worn-out piece of clothing into something new and special. She was a natural, so he said.

‘It must run in the family,’ he’d told her once, as they sat side by side at the bench. The cellar didn’t seem such a frightening place when Uncle Roland was there.

‘Was my mother a good seamstress too?’ Eve had asked him once. But Uncle Roland had shook his head, his eyes darting towards the door, as if he feared Aunt Freda might appear.

‘Best not talk about her in front of your aunt,’ he’d whispered. ‘You know it upsets her.’

After he’d died, Aunt Freda had taken Eve out of school and set her to work in his place. Eve hoped that she had done her uncle proud with her skills. Not that anyone would know it to look at her. While Aunt Freda was happy for her to sew for other people, she only allowed Eve to wear the most shapeless and dowdy of garments herself.

‘You’re not a beauty and you never will be,’ she’d told her firmly. ‘Besides, I don’t want you dressing like those hussies you see walking down the Mile End Road, showing everything the Good Lord gave them.’

Like Cissy and Jennifer. Aunt Freda would have a fit if she saw them, with their rouged cheeks, glistening pink lips and high heels. They were exactly the kind of girl her aunt despised.

But Eve was entranced by them. Everything about them fascinated her – their carefully curled hair, their clothes, their confidence. Jennifer and Cissy were as glamorous as a pair of movie stars. Or at least, what Eve could imagine movie stars looking like, if she’d ever seen one. But her aunt considered the cinema to be a den of sin, and Eve had never been allowed to go.

Had her mother been that pretty and carefree? Eve wondered. She had always longed to ask her aunt, but knew she would never dare. Aunt Freda had destroyed every photograph of Lizzie Marshall after she’d died.

‘I tossed them all on a bonfire in the back garden,’ she’d declared. ‘I don’t want any memories of that woman in my house. Not after what she did.’

Eve could understand it, but she dearly wished she could have seen her mother’s face or had a keepsake of her, even if it was only a faded snapshot.

As it was, the only memory she had was given to her by Uncle Roland. He had described Lizzie once as they worked at the big cutting table.

‘Always laughing, she was. When she smiled, it lit up her face,’ he’d whispered, all the while shooting nervous glances over his shoulder to make sure Aunt Freda wasn’t listening. ‘She had your grey eyes too, but her hair was very dark.’

‘I suppose I must get my light brown hair from my father,’ Eve mused.

‘I daresay.’ But before he’d had a chance to add any more, the cellar door had opened and they’d heard Aunt Freda’s tread coming down the stairs.

From that day on, Uncle Roland had refused to be drawn into talking any more about her mother. But it was enough for Eve to build up a mental picture of her.

And in her mind, the smiling, dark-haired young woman looked exactly like Jennifer Caldwell.