Nightingales at War (8 page)

EVE WATCHED THE
car disappearing off into the darkness, and wondered if she’d done the right thing. Not that she’d had much choice, she told herself. Even if she’d tried to stop Jennifer going, she doubted if she would have taken any notice.

Eve was worried for her, but at the same time she couldn’t help admiring her. Jennifer Caldwell was utterly fearless, striding out boldly in her heels, her head held high under the cheeky angle of her hat. How Eve wished she could be more like her, so sure of herself and filled with confidence, instead of being scared of her own shadow.

She looked around, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the all-enveloping darkness of the blacked-out street. She started walking, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other in the darkness. Every so often someone would brush past her, knocking her sideways, followed by a muttered apology and receding footsteps before she had even managed to recover her balance.

She headed towards the river, following the acrid, tarry smell that hung on the warm night air. Somewhere ahead of her lay the shining ribbon of the Thames. But as she walked further, she began to realise that all was not as it should be. Instead of narrow terraces of houses, great warehouses seemed to loom up on every side of her. As she looked up, she thought she could make out the tall, skeletal shape of a crane.

Eve stopped, trying to get her bearings, panic filling her chest. Somewhere she must have taken a wrong turn, come down a side road. Instead of seeing the familiar shops of Cable Street, she had ended up close to the docks.

And then she heard the footsteps, coming out of the darkness behind her.

Eve held her breath and listened. It was her imagination, she told herself. Fear was playing tricks on her. But the footsteps were definitely getting closer. Sinister footsteps – not quick and purposeful, but slow, heavy, dragging . . .

Panicking, Eve ran blindly out into the middle of the road, and straight into the path of a bicycle.

She heard a screech of brakes, and the next thing she knew she was sitting in the middle of the road, a tall shape bending over her.

‘Are you all right?’ a male voice asked.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Just a bit shaken, that’s all.’ Eve scrambled to her feet, brushing herself down.

‘I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t see you until it was too late. Did I hit you? I thought I was going slowly.’

‘Really, I’m quite all right. It was my fault for dashing out into the road.’

She paused, listening. The heavy, dragging footsteps had vanished. Just her imagination after all, she decided. And now the moon had emerged from behind a cloud, she could finally make out where she was, too.

‘It’s Eve, isn’t it?’

She looked up into the face of the stranger. In the dim, silvery moonlight, she could vaguely make out his tall, slim outline looming over her.

‘I’m Oliver – Reverend Stanton’s son? We met on Sunday at church.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ She recognised him now she could just about make out his features in the gloom.

‘Perhaps I could walk you home, since we’re both heading the same way?’ Oliver offered.

‘Really, there’s no need.’

‘But it’s the least I can do, after giving you a scare like that—’

‘I said no!’ Eve cut him off, nerves making her abrupt. ‘Really, I’m fine,’ she said, more calmly.

‘Well, if you’re sure?’ She could hear from the faltering of his voice that she had offended him. But she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t imagine what her aunt would do if she turned up with a young man in tow. Even if it was Reverend Stanton’s son.

‘Quite sure, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back. My aunt will be worried if I’m late.’

‘Of course. It was nice meeting you again,’ he called after her. But his voice was already lost in the distance as Eve hurried away.

Aunt Freda was waiting for her, sitting tall and gaunt in the high-backed armchair beside the unlit kitchen fireplace. She was half asleep, her Bible resting in her lap. But her eyes snapped open as soon as Eve walked in.

‘You’re late,’ she remarked.

‘I had to walk all the way back from my class, and I got lost in the dark.’

‘Got lost? I’ve never heard such nonsense. Surely you should know your way by now? Unless you’ve been up to no good,’ she said.

Eve thought guiltily about running into Oliver Stanton. She wondered if she should tell her aunt about it, but there was really nothing to tell.

Thankfully, for once her aunt changed the subject. ‘Now you’re back you can make yourself useful and put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘I have a slight headache.’ She pressed her fingers to her temples.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Aunt. Shall I fetch you an aspirin?’

‘If I’d wanted an aspirin, I would have asked for one, wouldn’t I?’ Aunt Freda shot back. ‘Just make a cup of tea, and be quick about it.’

Eve picked up the kettle and filled it at the sink.

‘How much longer are these wretched classes going to go on?’ Aunt Freda asked. ‘You know I don’t approve of you being out until all hours.’

‘Tonight was the last one.’ Eve lit the gas and put the kettle on the hob to heat. ‘I start work at the hospital next week.’

She sensed it was the wrong thing to say. Aunt Freda was already vexed about her abandoning the shop to work as a VAD three days a week.

‘Yes, well, we shall have to see about that,’ she muttered. But before she could say any more, there was a loud knock on the front door that startled them both. Aunt Freda sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Who on earth is calling at this time of night?’ she said.

‘I’ll go, shall I?’ Eve started towards the door, but her aunt put out a hand to stop her.

‘Certainly not. It’s my house, and I shall answer my own front door.’

She rose stiffly to her feet and headed up the passageway. Eve warmed the pot and spooned in the tea and wondered if her aunt was going to make much fuss about her going to work at the hospital. Taking the First Aid classes had made her realise how much she wanted to put her skills into practice. But she didn’t want to show what it meant to her, because then her aunt would forbid it completely.

At least she had the law on her side, thought Eve. She had to do some kind of war work, whether her aunt liked it or not. She just had to approach it very carefully . . .

She turned round and almost dropped the teapot when she saw her aunt standing silently in the doorway.

Eve put her hand to her hammering heart. ‘Oh, Aunt, you gave me quite a start—’

Then she saw the leather strap hanging loosely from her aunt’s hand, and a ripple of dread ran through her. She straightened up, trying not to tremble. ‘Aunt Freda?’ she whispered.

‘You had a visitor,’ Aunt Freda said. She held out her other hand, and Eve saw her own purse. ‘Reverend Stanton’s son. He says you dropped this earlier on?’ Her brows arched questioningly over cold, hard eyes.

‘I can explain . . .’ Eve started to say. But the leather strap whistled through the air, catching the back of her hand with a sharp crack. Eve flinched back, snatching her hand away.

‘Don’t you dare speak to me!’ Aunt Freda’s voice rasped. ‘I don’t want to hear your lies.’ She advanced towards Eve, her eyes pinpricks of venom. ‘You’ve been sneaking around behind my back, haven’t you?’

‘N-no, Aunt. I—’

‘And I suppose you’ve been lying to me about those classes of yours, too, haven’t you? Telling me you’re off learning to be a nurse, when all the time you’ve been getting up to all sorts!’

Eve backed away, her eyes fixed on the twitching leather strap. ‘I haven’t, Aunt, honestly. I was walking home, and he ran into me on his bicycle. I – I must have dropped my purse then.’

‘Liar!’ The leather strap cracked through the air again, narrowly missing her. Aunt Freda advanced towards her, face taut with fury. Eve’s legs buckled and she groped behind her, fingers closing around the worn wood of the draining board.

‘I swear to you, Aunt, it’s the truth.’

‘Swear, would you? So you’re a blasphemer as well as a whore.’ Aunt Freda’s face twisted. ‘I should have known, no matter what I did you’d turn out just like your mother.’

‘But Aunt—’

‘You need to be punished.’ Aunt Freda’s voice was suddenly low and calm, belying the madness in her eyes. ‘I will not have a lying whore in this house, do you understand me? You need to have the evil beaten out of you, for your own good.’

‘Aunt, please,’ Eve begged, her voice hoarse with fear.

‘It’s for your own good, child. “He that doeth wrong shall receive for the wrong which he hath done.” Colossians, chapter three, verse twenty-five. How do you ever expect to learn, if no one teaches you a lesson?’

‘Please, Aunt—’ She was whimpering now, unable to stop herself even though she knew her pleas would only goad her aunt further. ‘Please, don’t—’

The leather cracked, and she felt the hot snap of pain across her cheek, sending her reeling backwards. All she could do was cower, her arms over her head, and wait for it all to be over.

THE NIGHTMARE JOLTED
Dora into wakefulness and she jack-knifed upright, gasping for breath, her heart hammering. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, lost in the sea of her double bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, her nightgown damp with sweat. But slowly, as her eyes got used to the darkness, she started to make out the familiar shapes of the wardrobe and chest of drawers, and the soft breathing of her babies on either side of her.

She put her hand to her chest and tried to breathe deeply as the sound of Nick’s screams slowly faded from her mind. But they didn’t disappear completely. When she closed her eyes, she could still see his face, caked with dirt and blood and glistening with sweat, distorted with pain and terror.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had the nightmare. She’d had the same dream every night since the news came from Dunkirk. For the past week she’d woken to the same awful vision.

But this was too vivid to be a dream. It was as if he were there, so real and solid she could have reached out and touched the rough serge of his uniform, stiff with dirt and blood. Even now, she could still hear the deafening sound of machine-gun fire, the explosions, the sound of panicked screaming, and—

Waves. Underneath the deafening bombardment, the muted roar of the sea, and the smell of salt . . .

Beside her, baby Walter stirred and started to whimper. He was a far lighter sleeper than his sister, who went on breathing softly, her plump little arm curled over Aggy the rag doll. Usually Dora would have waited for Walter to go back to sleep by himself. But this time, glad of the distraction, she got out of bed, disentangling herself from the sheets, and picked him up.

‘There, there, sweetheart,’ she crooned softly, burying her face in the warmth of his shoulder, calmed by his comforting baby smell. Holding her son close, she could feel her frantic heartbeat slowing down at last.

Walter soon nodded off, his head heavy on her shoulder. Dora tucked him back into bed beside his sister, but she couldn’t face getting back in herself. Weary as she was, she was afraid to sleep in case the nightmare came back and she saw Nick’s face again in her dreams. She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs to the kitchen.

She tiptoed past Danny, curled up on his mattress under the window. Not that he stirred – Danny always slept so soundly, his innocent mind untroubled by fears and nightmares. She envied him that.

Dora crept into the scullery and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she went over to the window, lifted a corner of the heavy blackout curtain and looked out. It was a balmy June night, and the air was still. There were no street lamps, but the full moon cast a silvery light over the backyard, illuminating the coal bunker, the outhouse and the makeshift rabbit hutch that Little Alfie had put up for Octavius after he gnawed his way out of his cardboard box.

The day after he’d built it, Nanna Winnie had made a show of going out into the backyard with her knife, much to Little Alfie’s dismay.

‘You can’t eat Octavius!’ he’d cried, distraught. ‘He’s my pet.’

‘He’s another bleeding mouth to feed!’ Nanna shot back. ‘I’m sick of him eating all my best greens. He’s going in a pie.’

As Dora and her mother tried to console Alfie, Nanna had returned five minutes later empty-handed. ‘There ain’t more than a morsel of meat on him yet,’ she’d declared. ‘I’ll wait till he’s filled out a bit.’

Rose had winked at Dora. ‘I knew she wouldn’t do it,’ she whispered. ‘I caught her out there feeding him carrot tops the other day.’

Was that really only two weeks ago? Everything had seemed so normal then. If Dora had known what was to come, she would have cherished their laughter, held on to it with everything she had. Now she longed for those days, when they were full of hope . . .

‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one?’

Dora looked over her shoulder. Her mother stood in the doorway to the scullery, her dressing gown drawn around her.

‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Dora said. ‘I tried to be quiet.’

Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t sleep much these days, to be honest.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t suppose you do either?’

Dora turned away, taking an extra cup from the cupboard. ‘The kids were restless,’ she said. ‘I think Walter might be teething again—’

‘It’s all right, Dor. I’m your mum, you don’t have to pretend with me.’

No, she thought, but I have to pretend to myself. If she stopped pretending, she wasn’t sure if she would have the strength to go on.

It was only in her dreams that the mask came down and reality clawed at her. Dora thought again about her nightmare, about the incessant rattle of gunfire, the rush of waves. If she breathed in, she could still almost smell the salty tang in the air.

That was why she couldn’t sleep. She was too afraid.

‘It’s all right to be worried,’ Rose went on. ‘It’d be a strange thing if you weren’t. But you’ll get some news soon.’

When? Dora wanted to cry out. It had been over a week since the evacuation began. They had already had a letter from her brother Peter to say he was safe, and at the hospital not a day went by without one of the nurses hearing good news from a loved one. Dora celebrated with them, but at the same time her heart broke that she still hadn’t had news of Nick.

With nothing else to go on, she could only imagine the worst. And working on the ward, being surrounded by men with devastating injuries, men whose lives and bodies had been shattered by war, only made her imagination run riot.

‘Chin up, love. You heard what Pete said in his letter. It’s been that chaotic bringing all the men back, even the War Office can’t keep track of who’s where.’

‘I know, Mum.’ Dora tried to smile.

‘You know what they say. No news is good news.’

Dora looked into her mother’s tired brown eyes. Rose didn’t believe that any more than Dora did. But she was desperate to give her daughter hope, and Dora was desperate enough to take it.

What else could she do? She was trying her best to keep smiling, but with each day that passed it was growing harder and harder to believe that the news would be good.

The following morning Dora arrived on the ward to find more casualties had arrived during the night, including a wounded airman in one of the private rooms.

‘He has suffered extensive burns over his face and body.’ Sister Holmes recited the gruesome details in a flat voice. ‘He is being kept sedated with morphia for the pain. He will need his dressings changed every two hours, and a daily saline bath.’

But her face told a different story. The private rooms were for patients on the Dangerously Ill List, who needed extra nursing care. They were also, although no one would admit it, the patients with little chance of recovery.

Dora glanced sideways at Daisy Bushell. The colour had already drained from her face.

‘Sister won’t expect me to help with his dressings, will she, Nurse?’ she whispered anxiously, after Sister Holmes had dismissed them. ‘I honestly don’t think I could manage it.’

There isn’t much you can manage, is there? Dora bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. Daisy should have been used to the men’s injuries by now, but she still turned faint at the sight of blood. But Dora couldn’t be too angry with her. The girl gamely turned up every day and did her best. And even though her skills were limited to scrubbing floors, making beds and emptying bedpans, Dora knew they couldn’t do without her.

There was talk of a new VAD arriving the following morning. Dora only hoped she had a stronger stomach than Miss Bushell.

Yet more casualties arrived during the day, including a gas gangrene case. Dr Jameson arrived for his rounds as the patient was being wheeled into a private room.

‘Poor devil,’ he said grimly to Dora. ‘He’s in a wretched state. Mr Cooper amputated his arm and has given him antitoxin, but it probably won’t be enough to save him.’ He shook his head. ‘Frankly, I’m astonished the poor chap made it back across the Channel. He must have been determined to get home.’

Dora suddenly thought of Nick. Was he out there too, struggling to get back to her?

Sister Holmes summoned her over. ‘You’ll have to deal with the new patient since I’m busy with Dr Jameson’s round. He’ll need an intravenous infusion of saline. I’ve already set it up for you.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

As she walked into the room, the putrid sweetness of the gas gangrene hit Dora like a sickening wall. She held her breath, forcing herself not to gag as she attached the infusion and arranged the warmed blankets and hot water bottles around the man.

She consulted his notes. His name was Sam Gerrard, and he was twenty-five years old. The same age as Nick. Bile rose in her throat again, but this time it had nothing to do with the man’s injuries.

She was replacing his notes when his eyes suddenly fluttered open.

‘Where am I?’ he whispered, his voice as dry as sand.

Dora came to the side of the bed, where he could see her. ‘You’re in hospital, ducks. In London.’

‘I made it home, then?’

‘Yes, you’re home. Safe and sound.’

‘I dunno about that.’ His mouth curved in the sketch of a smile. ‘I’m in a bad way, ain’t I?’

Sam was an East End lad, she could tell it from his accent. He sounded so much like Nick it almost broke Dora’s heart. She forced her brightest smile as she lifted his wrist to check his pulse. It skittered beneath her fingers like a trapped bird. ‘You’ve got home, and that’s something,’ she said. ‘Now, can I get you something to drink?’

‘A pint would be nice.’

‘I don’t know if I can manage that! How about some water?’

Private Gerrard had drifted off to sleep by the time she’d poured his water for him. But he woke up again as she was setting up a heat cradle over his bed.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Something to keep you warm.’

‘I’d rather have my missus.’

Dora smiled. ‘You’re married?’

‘With two kids. Twins.’

Her throat dried. ‘How old are they?’

‘Just turned a year.’

Dora stared down at him. It could have been Nick lying there in that bed.

‘I – I’ll get you that drink I promised you, shall I?’ She forced herself to stay calm as she carefully lifted his head and held the cup to his lips for him to drink.

‘Are you sure that machine’s on?’ Sam said, as she laid him down again. ‘I’m bloody freezing.’

‘Give it a minute,’ Dora tried to smile, but anxiety uncurled inside her. ‘Are you in any pain?’

He shook his head. ‘Not as much. Hardly any, I’d say. Whatever you gave me must be doing the trick.’

‘That’s good news.’ Dora turned away so he wouldn’t see her face. It was a good sign, she told herself, even though all her training and experience told her the opposite. The pain stopped when the toxins took hold.

She switched off the heat cradle. ‘There, we’ll leave it for half an hour then put it on again.’

‘Miss?’ She’d reached the door when Sam called her back.

‘Yes?’

‘I will be all right, won’t I? Only I promised my wife I’d come home for her and the kids.’

Dora hesitated for a moment, not sure if she could trust herself to speak. Dr Jameson’s words came back to her.
He must have been determined to get home.

‘You’d better keep your promise then, hadn’t you?’ she whispered.

Dora was still thinking about Sam Gerrard as she made her way home later. It was another warm June evening, and Victoria Park was closing. As Dora passed, it made her smile to see the park-keeper with his bunch of keys jingling on his belt, ushering people out of the yawning gap that had once been the park gates.

She thought of another young woman, just like herself, cuddling her baby twins in the small hours of the morning, wondering and worrying and waiting for news.

Her husband would come home to her, Dora decided. Sam was a fighter, just like her Nick. He had made his wife a promise, and he meant to keep it. That promise alone would keep him alive, just as it would keep her Nick alive.

But then she turned the corner and saw her mother standing at the end of the alleyway, and her heart stopped in her chest.

Her mother never came to meet her. Not unless she had news . . .

Dora saw the envelope in her mother’s hand and suddenly she wanted to run, to turn and flee and not have to face whatever lay ahead of her. But her legs seemed to melt away from underneath her, and the next thing she knew she was sitting on the kerb as her mother walked slowly towards her, holding out the telegram she had been dreading.