Women on the Home Front (52 page)

‘Have you any idea why?'

‘No.' There had been a murmur in the court room but he'd kept his head down. Let them think what they bloody well wanted to. There was no proof.

‘You see, I can't understand what made her run out like that,' said the coroner. ‘Surely she must have seen the bus coming? The previous witness said that he thought her action was part of a joke. He thought that you and your wife could have been indulging in some kind of horseplay when she fell. You, on the other hand, say it was deliberate.'

Stan had raised his head and looked the silly old fool right in the eye. ‘That's right, it was deliberate. She meant to do it.'

The whole place erupted as her relatives shouted down from the back of the room. ‘Liar!' ‘Bastard.'

The coroner struggled to make himself heard over the din. ‘Any more disruptions like that and I shall have no other alternative than to have you all forcibly ejected from this room.'

Stan knew perfectly well why they were upset. They were Catholics. She couldn't be buried in consecrated ground and there would be no Mass said in her memory if the verdict was suicide. He didn't believe in all that mumbo-jumbo, but they did. She did too and she was planning to tell the whole world about him. That wasn't right. A wife should never betray her husband. He did his best not to let them take the kid away from him but now that the grandparents had got hold of her, they were fighting tooth and nail to keep her. Never mind, he would have his revenge.

The coroner had been very thorough in his summing up and it had been music to his ears when he finally said, ‘It had been suggested that what happened could have been caused by laughing and joking, but her husband's testimony flies in the face of that. There is no reason to believe that the deceased had intended to take her life, but I can only draw my conclusions on the circumstantial evidence.' There had been a howl of protest from the seats at the back when the verdict was announced. ‘Suicide while mentally unbalanced.'

The police had advised Stan to stay within the court until the family had gone. They were baying for blood. Perhaps he should move again. They'd never let him forget. They'd already poisoned half the town against him.

*

Connie was sent to the medical ward so that the more trained staff could be in Accident and Emergency. In the event, there were few casualties because the weather had kept most people in their homes. Connie had finally come off duty at ten past midnight. She was dog tired and hardly able to put one foot in front of the other. Sister Curtis had given both her and the other two nurses extra off duty but it didn't amount to much.

‘You can come back on duty at twelve noon tomorrow,' she told them. ‘I'll clear it with the day staff. You can have a bit of a lie-in.'

They were grateful of course, but it would have been better if they'd had the whole day off. If she had, she might have risked going home.

Connie got undressed without putting on the light and crawled into bed, careful not to wake Betty who was snoring nicely. As soon as she hit the pillow she went out like a light and only woke up at 10.15 a.m. Starving hungry, she was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.

Betty had tidied the room and Connie's laundry box was gone. Good old Betty, she thought. She'd have to have the same sheets for another week but at least her uniforms had been sent to the laundry. It was only then that she remembered the letters. Connie searched everywhere, hoping against hope that Betty had looked in the pockets and taken them out, but she couldn't find them anywhere. Why, oh why hadn't she opened that third letter? Connie had tried to take a sneaky look on the ward a couple of times, but Sister had spotted her and made sure she had something else to do.

One look out of the window told her that the snow was as bad as ever but she had to find Betty and ask her if she'd put them somewhere safe. If Betty hadn't found them, they would have gone to the laundry and that didn't bear thinking about. Connie decided if she couldn't find the letter, she would have to ring the Frenchie after all. Perhaps there had been some sort of emergency at home and someone had ended up in hospital. What other explanation was there? She looked at her watch. She had exactly one hour to do all that and get back on duty.

When she found Betty, she was full of apologies. ‘What a stupid clown I am,' she said, looking around to make sure Sister hadn't seen her creeping outside the ward doors. ‘I should have gone through your pockets but I never gave it a thought. The letters must still be there. Were they very personal?'

‘It's not that,' Connie said. ‘Where do they take the laundry boxes?'

‘Oh, they'll be long gone now,' said Betty. ‘The laundry is round the back of the hospital. You could try and see if they'll let you look for your things, I suppose.'

Connie groaned. If she went there right now, she'd probably have to get permission in triplicate before they would even let her in. She hadn't a hope of managing all that before her shift began.

‘I'm really sorry,' said Betty.

‘It's not your fault,' said Connie. ‘I don't know why I didn't just go to the toilet and read them. Everybody seemed to be in such a flap what with the bombing and all I didn't want anyone to think I was skiving.'

The ward door burst open almost knocking them over. ‘What do you think you are doing out here, nurse?' said an angry voice. ‘This is no time for a mothers' meeting.'

Betty hurried back into the ward with a, ‘No, Sister, sorry Sister …'

*

Stan had been jumpy, opening doors cautiously and looking around the rooms before he went in. The fire was almost out in the sitting room. He threw on another log and poked the embers back into life. Reaching for the whisky bottle, he'd poured himself a stiff drink and flopped down in the chair. He must have slept soundly and only woke when he heard a sound in the hallway. His heart began to thump wildly in his chest. He got up and opened the sitting room door. A vivid tongue of flame leapt to the ceiling and a rush of hot air came towards him. He felt it burn his skin. He made a dash towards the kitchen and the back door but he couldn't open it. The handle was wedged in some way. The flames were coming towards him. He couldn't stay here. He glanced wildly at the stairs but even if he could make it, it would be the height of stupidity to go up. He had to get out. He made his way back to the sitting room and immediately slammed the door, took off his coat and threw it across the doorway. Somewhere inside his head he remembered someone saying that fire feeds on oxygen. Cut off the supply and it would be contained. He'd obviously fed the fire as he opened the door but he could stop the steady draught of air under the door adding more fuel. He ran to the window and tried to open it but someone had nailed it shut. It was only then that he realised that his only way of escape was cut off. His hands hurt but he managed to grab a chair and smash the window. He laid cushions over the jagged edges and hauled himself coughing and gasping for air, into the garden.

The eight minutes it took the fire brigade to get to him seemed like a lifetime. He'd lain in the garden listening to the small explosions beyond the window as his beautiful home burned.

The firemen did what they could but he had lost everything. The hallway was a shell and elsewhere the walls were streaked and the carpets sodden. The smoke damage was everywhere. Everything stank and the whole house was grimy, smudged and blackened.

Of course the police asked a lot of questions. It was clear that someone had tried to murder him, but he was in a difficult position. He didn't want them probing too deeply. Who knows what they'd find out? He'd move away. Back to his mother's or something.

‘You'd better get that face seen to,' someone said.

That's when he'd looked down at his hands. They were burned. The skin hanging from his fingers as if he'd been peeled like an apple. Now that he thought about it, his face was beginning to throb. ‘It's off to hospital with you,' said a voice and all at once, the ground rushed up to meet him as he fainted clean away.

*

Belvedere Nurseries wasn't on the telephone but Clifford had made an arrangement with the Frenchie, the only person in the area with a telephone, that if there was an exceptional emergency, Connie could ring the workshop and he would pass on the message. Connie hurried to the public telephone box. There had been talk of the GPO putting a phone box inside the nurses' home but so far it was only talk. The call box was on the main road but at least someone had cleared the footpaths of snow and thrown salt down to prevent it from re-freezing.

When she picked up the receiver, Connie was relieved to hear the operator ask, ‘Number please.' She heard the dialling sound and then the pips went. Connie pressed the money home and a deep velvet voice said ‘Goring 529.'

She felt her knees go weak. ‘Oh, hello.' Her voice sounded ridiculously high. Connie cleared her throat and began again. ‘This is Connie Dixon. My mother lives at Belvedere Nurseries. I don't know if you remember me.'

‘I certainly do, Connie Dixon. How are you?'

‘I-I'm fine,' said Connie, ‘but I'm worried about my family. Do you know if they are all right?'

‘As a matter of fact, Clifford is here,' said the Frenchie. ‘I've got a bit of an emergency and I have to go. Do you want to speak to him?'

Connie was so relieved but why on earth was Clifford there? ‘Oh yes, yes please.' As she waited she remembered that Ga had told her they were helping the neighbours.

‘Everybody is fine,' Clifford assured her and went on to tell her what they had been doing. It was much the same as she remembered from Ga's letter. ‘We're organising ourselves to go round to some of the old folks and the people with very young families to make sure they are okay,' he went on. ‘Mandy has her sled and we've got blankets and spare hot water bottles and some food. We're having to dig some of them out. Nobody can remember snow as bad as this.' She heard someone calling in the background and Clifford said, ‘There's a small bottle of brandy in that brown bag, just in case.'

The money didn't last long but Connie didn't mind. Everybody at home was well and that was all that mattered. The letter from East Grinstead must have been about somebody else entirely. But who? If it wasn't about Ga or Mum or Mandy, who else could it have been? Her mind drifted to old friends. What about Irene Thompson? No, she told herself, don't be ridiculous. Why would a hospital contact her about Irene? She was as fit as a flea, and living in Weston-Super-Mare, a million miles from East Grinstead, and besides, there was no reason to contact Connie, she had her own family.

Then the thought hit her like a sledge hammer. There was only one other person it could be. Emmett Gosling.

‘I'm afraid you've drawn the short straw,' Sister said when Connie finally got back on the ward. ‘There's a private patient in Room 2 who has just been admitted and I've assigned you to look after her.'

The accident ward was still overflowing with people, mostly with broken legs, ankles and wrists from falling on the ice. On the whole, their patients took it in good spirits, probably glad to be in the warm for a bit and so long as the Friendly Society or the assurance company picked up the bill, they didn't have to worry about the cost.

Connie recognised her patient as soon as she opened the door. Mavis Hampton had a bandage on her ankle. She lay back on the pillow with a lace handkerchief to her lips. She had been doing her make-up.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Hampton,' Connie said pleasantly. ‘I'm Nurse Dixon and I shall be looking after you until the night staff come on duty.'

Mavis gave her a cold stare. ‘Then get me some tea. I'm dying of thirst in here.'

Connie bristled with indignation but she had no alternative but to go. Room 2 was usually reserved for Mr Nankeville's private patients and he was very particular. When she came back with the tea tray, the Frenchie was sitting beside Mavis' bed. Connie put the tray down and turned to go.

‘Thank you, nurse,' said Eugène and Connie gave him a shy smile. Already her heart was racing. ‘Oh, it's you, Connie. How nice to see you.'

As he stood up to open the door for her, Mavis burst into tears. ‘No one cares that I'm in such awful pain.'

Connie was surprised. Mavis had seemed all right when she'd first come into the room but then she realised that she disliked the woman so much she hadn't really given a thought to her nursing needs. ‘Would you like me to ask the doctor to see you again, Miss Hampton?'

‘Well …' said Mavis fluttering her eyelids at the Frenchie, ‘I hate to be a nuisance …'

Connie let the door close quietly behind her as Eugène went back to his fiancée's bedside. Her first port of the call was the Sister's desk where she reported Miss Hampton's pain and Sister sent for Mr Nankeville.

The rest of Connie's shift was a complete nightmare. Mavis rang the emergency bell for her flowers to be put in water, for Connie to rearrange her pillows, for more tea when her visitors came and for a bedpan. Connie struggled to keep smiling and to be pleasant especially when there were patients who were far more seriously ill on the ward.

‘That woman,' Sister complained when Connie came to tell her Mavis said her bandage was a little too tight, ‘I'll swing for her, so I will.'

The bell rang again. ‘Remind her that bell is only for emergencies,' Sister called as Connie dashed down the ward.

‘But this is an emergency,' Mavis snapped when Connie relayed the message. ‘I asked you ages ago to put my flowers in a vase and you still haven't done it.'

Eugène smiled apologetically which set Connie all at sixes and sevens again. Oh why did he have to be so gorgeous looking? she thought bitterly. And why were all the nice men taken?