A Summer Promise (25 page)
‘Right,’ Marigold said. ‘I’ll take the exams, because if you’re going to dig your heels in . . . only if I do pass I needn’t agree to be what you so charmingly describe as a “girl gunner” on an ack-ack site, I suppose.’
‘We’ll see,’ Maddy said cautiously. She had a feeling that the army would not take to the idea that a girl might choose her own posting, but no need to tell Marigold an unpalatable truth. Instead, she turned the subject. ‘I wonder where Alice is now?’ she said casually. ‘Fancy her actually becoming a nurse and
liking
it! All those horrid wounds and diseases, and being moved from one field hospital to another, to say nothing of the uniform. She always used to say that if she joined anything it would be the Wrens, because they wore black silk stockings!’
‘Oh well, that’s the rich Miss Thwaite for you,’ Marigold said tolerantly. ‘I’d love to go abroad, though, and the only way to do that is through nursing. Have you heard from her lately? It’s ages since I’ve had a letter from Tom – he apologised for not writing more regularly but I gather his surroundings are primitive, to say the least. And anyway, all I need to know is that he’s still alive . . .’ she giggled, ‘and still longing for me . . .’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Maddy said quickly. ‘Let’s go and put our names down for this examination you are so sure you’ll fail. And whilst we’re in the Mess we’ll take a look at the notice board and see if anyone’s written to us lately. It’s quite possible that Alice might have penned a few lines, describing her latest feller!’
ALICE WAS DRESSING
an enormous ulcer on a soldier’s leg. She was cleaning it thoroughly, knowing it was painful for the man but also knowing that hygiene was essential, for Egypt swarmed with unpleasant diseases, many of which she had treated over the past couple of years.
When she had first arrived in India and was staying at her father’s house she had been unhappy and, to put it mildly, unhelpful. Her father had wanted her to work with him in his office, but after three boring weeks, during which time she had done almost nothing, she had rebelled. Without telling her father, in case he tried to prevent her, she had gone along to the local hospital and volunteered as a trainee. She had been welcomed enthusiastically, put in a class in which Anglo-Indians predominated, and had begun to work harder than she had ever worked in her life before.
Letters from home – mostly from Maddy, Marigold and Tom – were rare and at first, hearing of their trials and tribulations, she had been almost ashamed to write back. But once she had passed both practical and written examinations and was actively training other women to do the work she had only just conquered herself, she found that she was proud of her particular war effort, even though for the most part she worked in civilised surroundings, whereas poor Maddy and Marigold, once they had joined up, seemed to have landed themselves in a hell of cold, misery and hard work.
And then there was Tom. She had always liked him, admired him even, but now she realised that he had meant more to her than just a companion. He was better than a brother, someone on whose championship she could totally rely. And very soon she began to long for his letters and plan how they would greet one another when the war was over. With the resilience of youth, she never even considered that one of them might be killed.
‘Nurse! Nurse Thwaite! When you’ve finished with that dressing I’d like a word. Come to my office.’
‘Yes, Matron,’ Alice said automatically. Once she would have drawn herself up and demanded that a “please” should be inserted, turning the command into a request, but now she knew better. Mrs Fortescue-Smy had once been the matron of a large London hospital and had brought her air of authority with her when she married her lieutenant colonel. That had been in the thirties, of course, but she had volunteered her services when war was declared. And the War Office soon realised they were lucky to have her.
‘Gawd, she scares me more’n the bleedin’ Jerries,’ the soldier upon whom Alice was working said through gritted teeth. He peered down at his shin and the blackened hole caused by the ulcer. ‘It don’t look no different from the way it looked yesterday and I don’t mind tellin’ you, nurse, it’s bleedin’ agony.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry for hurting you, but cleaning up the infection is essential before your leg can begin to heal,’ Alice said soothingly, beginning to bandage the dressing she had just applied to the man’s shrinking leg. She smiled as her patient relaxed, knowing from experience that once the dressing was in place the worst would be over . . . until the next day, of course.
She straightened up and began to collect her paraphernalia. ‘I wonder what Matron wants?’ she asked idly, not really expecting an answer. ‘I’m sure I’ve done nothing wrong. I wonder if it’s another posting? I’ve been moved around an awful lot since I joined the Queen Alexandra’s, so if they need nurses somewhere else . . . but I dare say Matron will tell me the score presently.’ Her face brightened. ‘Or it might be leave; I’ve not had leave for absolutely ages, not since I came to Egypt, in fact, so it’d be grand to wear mufti for a change.’ She smiled at the young soldier and patted his shoulder. ‘I’ll let you know when I know myself, provided it’s not classified,’ she said, beginning to wheel her small dressings trolley off the ward.
Outside Matron’s office she discovered her friend Susan about to knock on the door and they went into the room together, to find Matron seated at a small desk with a pile of papers in front of her. She looked busy, but as soon as they entered she pushed down the little steel spectacles she wore and indicated that they should sit down. ‘Now, I’ve been catching up with my paperwork and find that neither of you has had leave for . . . well, for some considerable time. If you would like to take advantage of the fact that we’re within reasonable reach of Cairo, it should be possible for you to spend some time in more civilised surroundings. How do you feel? It’s a fair journey from here, but not impossible, and there is a rest camp only a couple of miles from the city.’ She smiled very kindly at the girls. ‘Hot showers, a swimming pool, good food, a chance to relax . . . Nurse Thwaite, are you listening to me?’
Alice jumped, brought her attention back to the matron’s small room, and began to concentrate on the older woman’s description of the journey they would have to endure. It sounded long but perfectly possible, and the thought of a hot shower and a decent meal, a proper bed, time to relax and maybe a bathe, to one who loved swimming was like the gold at the end of the rainbow. But Matron had stopped speaking and was looking at them enquiringly. Alice swallowed hard twice, then spoke for them both. ‘Yes please, Matron,’ she said in a small voice. ‘How long would we have, though? You aren’t thinking of a forty-eight . . .?’
Matron smiled. ‘I think we can do without you for a week, maybe even a little longer,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I suggest you set off as soon as you can arrange for someone to take over your wards. You can reach the camp in a day or two . . . a nice change to be travelling, young ladies, from the hours you’ve been putting in here. Now off you go and start making your plans, because you won’t want to waste a moment of your leave.’
Alice and Susan left Matron’s office feeling, quite literally, as though they were walking on air. Leave! Alice had not fully realised how very tired she was until this moment, when the weight of responsibility was lifted, if only temporarily, from her shoulders. All the nurses had been working incredibly hard – twelve-hour shifts were the norm – for all hospitals were subjected to influxes of wounded men as they got nearer the Front. But Alice had heard from a number of the newer patients that the constant to-ing and fro-ing of the troops was, at present, in the Allies’ favour, so the stream of wounded had become a trickle. This was clearly why they were being allowed leave – Matron was seizing the opportunity to give the nurses time to themselves for a change.
She said as much to Susan, who enlightened her further. ‘You’re right, of course. Matron is sending everyone, by turns, to the rest camp; Dr Hassan told me so earlier. She really values her nurses – not like some – and knows that we will work all the harder when we come back from our break. Won’t it be lovely to get out of uniform, and into a swimming pool . . . oh, I can’t wait! Let’s start packing at once. I’m off shift; Nurse Greaves will be standing in for me, I expect.’
Alice didn’t answer. She was busy dreaming of some additions to her wardrobe – a floaty dance frock, a daring swimsuit, perhaps a brief white tennis dress – when it occurred to her that Susan was also blissfully contemplating some future fun. She poked her friend in the ribs. ‘Look, I know you’re already planning to play masses of golf, or tennis, or maybe even netball, but I’m not as sporting mad as you.’ She pulled a rueful face. ‘My only worry is that I might spend the entire time sleeping! But I dare say a couple of nights’ proper rest will set me up to enjoy the rest of my leave.’
Susan smiled at her. She was a plump and pretty brunette with an infectious giggle, and now she laughed delightedly at the other girl’s words. ‘Hole in one,’ she squeaked. ‘I’m off to start packing!’
Alice was halfway back to the nurses’ quarters when she remembered her promise to let the young soldier with the ulcer know why Matron had summoned her, and turned back to the ward. It wouldn’t take a minute and fair was fair; he was a nice lad and would appreciate her bothering to say goodbye. She began to hurry.
Tom was dreaming. The dream had started with that first – and last – exploration of the limestone caves the day before war was declared, and since, in the way of dreamers, he knew how it would end, he was looking forward to what he always thought of as ‘the Kiss’. What he did not anticipate, however, was finding himself clasping to his manly bosom the wrong woman! He looked down on Alice’s well-remembered, heart-shaped face, at the wide blue eyes gazing so trustfully up at him, and felt a heel; it was scarcely Alice’s fault that she wasn’t Marigold – or was it? Had she deliberately invaded his dream?
In his sleep, Tom moaned softly. Where was Marigold, where her gleaming gold curls and bright blue eyes? But even as the thought made him turn towards the cave entrance he saw, coming towards him, the right girl, an inviting smile on her lips. Tom moaned again and tried to run towards the cave mouth, but it was as though he ran through treacle, or perhaps sand . . . yes, it was sand, and oh, curses, curses, curses, he was waking, the dream was fading, and he was back in the hateful desert, his blanket heavy with dew, for nights in the desert were icy cold, and slipping off his shoulders.
Tom lay still for a moment, trying to recapture the dream, but it had gone. Ruefully, he snuggled down, but before he could try to conjure sleep there was a tremendous explosion and he was wriggling as far as he could into his bolthole before he was more than half awake. Another enormous explosion rent the air. Someone screamed; no, it wasn’t human, it was one of those hellish dive-bombers – Stukas, weren’t they? – which had probably seen the Jeep, though how the pilot had known friend from foe in this tricky dawn light was a puzzle, Tom thought. He lay very still, in one of the gritty tunnels which he and Ricky had dug the previous evening, till the sound of the aircraft had faded into silence, then crawled out of his retreat and looked around for his pal, reflecting that they had not expected to be attacked at this particular spot. After all, they had dug the vehicle in as well as they could and their boltholes should have been impossible to pick out from the air. He supposed that the Stuka was simply shedding a last bomb rather than aiming at anything in particular and it was just bad luck that they had been in the way.
The war in the desert had been a series of advances and retreats and this time they had seen the German army doing more retreating than advancing. So we Brits have been getting cheekier and cheekier, Tom reflected with a grin, remembering a recent incident when, short of supplies, including water, he and Ricky had taken one of the staff cars, whose engine it had been their job to get back into fighting trim, and blasted off into what was described as the wide blue yonder. They had searched for and found a German supply depot, guarded by a couple of soldiers, and driven straight in. Both guards had straightened up and heil-Hitlered, and after a second’s pause Tom and Ricky had returned the enemy salute. Then they had jumped down and begun to help themselves, taking tins of corned beef, canned fruit, tea and a large quantity of something which turned out to be dried milk, as well as several cartons of cigarettes and some loose shag. They had just filled their water containers when Ricky had suddenly gasped, pointing to the vehicle which had driven in ahead of them. The Jerry soldier in the passenger seat had jumped down and checked the contents of his restocked vehicle against a list which hung on a wooden post by the exit. Tom had waited until the other vehicle had driven off into the dusty distance and then walked over to the list. With true Teutonic efficiency, the list had instructed
Detail items taken, then sign
– or at least that’s how Tom’s schoolboy German had interpreted it. Fortunately, they had not had to speak but merely to fill in figures – the cigarettes and tobacco, a dozen tins of corned beef, the same number of canned fruit, several bags of tea and four large boxes of dried milk.
Tom’s heart had beaten rather faster than usual, but he had thought the risk worthwhile, for their supplies had almost gone. However, when he told Ricky that they were lucky the guards had not been the keenest, his friend had pointed out that their chances of being recognised and challenged had been pretty slight. ‘That’s one thing about desert warfare, with everyone casting uniform aside in favour of khaki shorts and army boots: you wouldn’t know Marlene Dietrich from Gracie Fields, though I dare say if you replaced our Gracie with Tommy Handley, that might raise a few eyebrows!’
But that had been several days ago and now there was anxiety in Tom’s voice as he called his friend’s name and heard no answering shout. ‘Ricky? Where are you?’ he yelled, and was horrified to hear a mumble and then a groan coming from the bolthole next to his own. He dived and grabbed his friend’s arm, saying, ‘Ricky! Are you all right?’ and was appalled to hear a sharply indrawn breath and to realise that the arm he had grabbed was slippery with blood.
