A Wartime Nurse (13 page)

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Authors: Maggie Hope

Tags: #Nurses, #World War; 1939-1945, #Sagas, #War & Military, #Fiction

BOOK: A Wartime Nurse
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‘Mam,’ she said patiently, ‘if we all had the day off, who would look after the sick?’
‘Let them look after themselves,’ said Chuck from where he lay sprawled on the horsehair sofa in the corner of the kitchen. He was reading the
Daily
Herald
but as usual never missed a chance to show his resentment of the German prisoners his sister was nursing.
It was half-past four in the afternoon and Chuck was on fore shift. He had come in from the pit a couple of hours before and was bathed and fed and lying in his stockinged feet and braces until it was time for his date with Norma Musgrave. They were going to the pictures in Eldon Lane; the Working Men’s Club there had a picture house built over the club house. The entrance was only fourpence, so much cheaper than going into Bishop Auckland, and they were saving all they could for the future. Mostly Norma’s idea, Theda suspected. Chuck had always been free with his money until he began going out with her. Norma was careful with money to put it mildly.
‘Chuck, get up off that couch and go and pull me some Brussels sprouts,’ his mother said sharply. ‘Your da will be coming in before we know it and the dinner not ready.’
He pulled a face but went to do as he was bid.
‘They could let some of you have Christmas Day off, anyroad,’ Bea continued the conversation as she sifted dried egg and dried milk into the flour for the cake and added cinnamon and a pinch of bicarbonate of soda. Theda finished cutting up the prunes and began grating carrots before she replied.
‘It’s fairer if no one gets it off,’ she explained, as she was sure she had explained every other Christmas since she had entered nursing. She raised her hand and brushed a lock of dark hair away from her forehead with the back of her arm.
‘Hmm,’ her mother snorted. She began beating margarine and white sugar together, for brown had been unobtainable in the Co-op where her ration books were lodged. Her strong arms were soon bringing the mixture to a light fluffy texture so she could add the other ingredients.
‘I’ve got Boxing Day afternoon,’ offered Theda, as a sort of consolation prize.
‘Well, I’ll just have to save some of the goodies for you, won’t I?’
Though the blackout restrictions had been eased to a ‘dim-out’ recently, the kitchen curtains with their black lining had been drawn as soon as it became necessary to put a match to the gas mantle over the table. So they didn’t see anyone coming up the yard until there was a knock at the door and Violet Mitchell came in, her arm around and supporting Clara. A white and trembling Clara, fighting to hold back the tears glistening in her eyes. Both Theda and her mother dropped what they were doing and started towards her.
‘Whatever—’ Bea began, but was interrupted by Violet.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Wearmouth,’ she said. ‘Clara wasn’t feeling very well, that’s all, so instead of working overtime I thought I’d bring her home.’ She practically carried Clara into the kitchen and set her down on the sofa where she lay against the raised end and closed her eyes.
Theda went to her at once, feeling her rapid pulse, the clammy coldness of her skin. ‘What happened?’ she asked as Bea hovered, looking anxious.
‘She was sick, that’s all,’ explained Violet. ‘Then she fainted. I blame the powder. I’m telling you, the smell of that stuff is blooming awful. It’s enough to make anyone throw up.’
It passed through Theda’s mind that Clara had worked among the yellow gun powder for a year or two now but it had not made her sick before. Looking at her sister, she had her own suspicions and they were pretty dismaying.
Clara suddenly sat up and lifted her head. ‘I’m fine now, really I am. Don’t fuss. I couldn’t fancy the dinner in the canteen, that’s what it was. And then afterwards I was hungry.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on, pet,’ said Bea. ‘You can have a bite of something. You an’ all, Violet. It was good of you to come home with her.’ She shook her head at her youngest daughter. ‘I don’t know, you’re nowt but a worry to me, you’re not. You never do eat enough. You should be thankful for what you can get to eat these days, never mind not fancying anything.’ She was working herself up, venting her alarm in sharp words now she felt there was nothing seriously wrong with Clara.
Theda intercepted a meaningful glance between the two younger girls. There was something going on here, she could see, and it probably meant trouble. But surely Clara hadn’t – no, she was much too sensible a girl. But so many sensible girls had got caught in this war, what with soldiers only home for a day or two at a time before going back to France.
‘Thanks, Mrs Wearmouth,’ said Violet, backing towards the door. ‘I think I’ll be getting on home now, but thanks anyway for the offer.’
After she had gone, her quick footsteps echoing on the bricks of the yard, Clara sat up and unwound the pink scarf from her neck. Theda looked at it. The pink was discoloured in patches by an ugly sulphur-like yellow. Maybe that was the cause of Clara’s sudden illness. But a glance at her sister’s face, the tears glistening unshed and the dark shadows under her eyes, made her think otherwise.
Bea was spooning the cake mixture into a tin lined with the paper the margarine had come in. She was working quickly now so as to get the cake out of the way, prepare a snack for Clara and begin the dinner for the menfolk. As she stooped behind the heavy iron door of the oven, Theda’s questioning eyes met her sister’s.
Clara lifted her chin and looked back defiantly. ‘I’m all right, our Theda,’ she snapped.
Bea closed the oven door carefully and pulled the coals in the range back from the oven flue to lower the temperature. ‘Course you are, pet. I’ll make you a sandwich now, and you’ll be as right as rain.’
Theda said nothing but at the first opportunity went upstairs and peeped into the top drawer of the chest in the room she shared with Clara. There was a full pile of clean rags which were used for sanitary purposes every month; she herself was not due for another five days but was well aware that Clara’s courses usually preceded her own. And though she hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, she remembered that the pile was undisturbed last month too when she went for them.
Sitting down on the bed, she drew a deep breath. It had to be that Canadian pilot or navigator or something, the one from Middleton St George airfield. Dear God, the stupid, stupid girl! After a moment she got to her feet and went downstairs. Bea was peeling potatoes on the table and looked reproachfully at her as she went into the kitchen.
‘I know it’s your day off, but I’m going to be well pushed to get the meal ready for six,’ she said.
‘Sorry, Mam. I’ll do those, shall I?’
Theda took the knife from her mother who went out to the pantry for the soused herring she had cooked earlier in the day to go with the potatoes.
‘Don’t say anything, please.’
Theda had been avoiding Clara’s eyes but the hoarse whisper made her turn and gaze at her.
‘She’ll have to be told. Goodness knows why she hasn’t put two and two together already.’
‘I know, but don’t tell—’
‘What are you two whispering about?’
Bea had come back into the room with the baking tin containing the soused herring and put it on top of the oven to warm. But she was speaking casually, Theda saw, as she didn’t really think anything of it.
‘Nothing, Mam, nothing really,’ she said, and Clara cast her a grateful glance.
There was no opportunity for Theda to talk to Clara on their own until after the meal and even then it was just a few whispered words. Matt came in and they ate the soused herrings and potatoes practically in silence. Their father was white and tired under his layer of coal dust. He ate automatically, pushing the food into his mouth and chewing and swallowing, one forkful and then another. He had washed his hands before eating but the rest of him was still black. Theda found herself watching the red mark of a new scar on the back of one hand, contrasting starkly with the white skin, and as he raised his fork to his mouth, the black of his face.
‘You should have had a dressing on that, Da,’ she said, and he lifted his gaze briefly from his meal and looked at her, the white of his eyes gleaming like those of the singer Hutch whom she had seen once in a short filler film at the pictures.
‘A touch of coal dust in the blood doesn’t hurt,’ he replied, and went on with his meal.
Afterwards she brought in the galvanised tin bath and placed it in front of the fire and ladled in hot water from the boiler by the side of the black-leaded range. Chuck went out to meet Norma and her mother stayed in the kitchen to wash Matt’s back so she and Clara were the only ones to retire to the front room while he had his bath. But the dividing wall was thin. There was no chance of having a real heart to heart.
‘You’re right, I’ve fallen wrong. I don’t know what to do,’ Clara whispered frantically, the moment they were on their own. She moved as far away from the kitchen as possible and turned back to her sister. ‘Tell me what to do, Theda.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, have you seen a doctor?’
‘A doctor? How could I see a doctor? How could I go to Dr Oliver? Anyroad, they say the doctors can’t tell until you’re at least four months gone, so what’s the point of going? I have to do something now!’
‘Missing a period doesn’t always mean you’re expecting,’ said Theda. She was casting about in her own mind for anything that might prove they were wrong, and it was a false alarm. The eloquent look she got from her sister made her dismiss that possibility.
‘Oh, Clara, what were you thinking of?’ she whispered sharply, taking refuge in anger and in that moment looking remarkably like her mother. She jumped visibly when the door to the kitchen opened and Bea came in. Clara whirled round and stared fixedly at the picture of Grandma and Grandda Mason which hung on the wall. She rumbled in the sleeve of her cardigan for her handkerchief and blew her nose, blinking rapidly. But her mother wasn’t watching her, she was rooting in the drawer of the chiffonier for a clean towel. Finding one, she stood at the open door for a moment before going out.
‘I hope you two lasses aren’t quarrelling,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d grown out of that sort of thing?’
‘I think I’m getting a cold,’ mumbled Clara.
Bea sighed. ‘Aye, well, I’ll make you a hot drink and you can go to bed. I’ve got some blackcurrant jam left; I’ll put a spoonful in a cup of hot water. That’s the best thing to mend a cold.’
When she went out the sisters fell silent. All that could be heard was the splashing of their father as he knelt by the bath and sluiced the top half of his body with clean water from the boiler, and the ticking of the wall clock which hung beside the photos of their grandparents.
It was cold in the room. It had been Matt’s turn to give half his allotment of coal this month to Mrs Hutchinson up the road, whose husband and two sons were in the forces. Theda shivered and walked over to Clara. She put her arms around her and hugged her.
‘I have to go now, pet,’ she said. ‘Look, try to put it out of your mind for the minute. It’s always possible you’re just late, anyway. I’ll try to get back tomorrow but if not I’ll see you at the weekend. Howay now, pull yourself together. A good night’s sleep will help. Drink Mam’s blackcurrant and take the oven shelf to bed.’
Clara was shivering. Theda realised with a shock how thin she was, she could feel the bones of her back through her cardigan.
‘All clear,’ called their mother. ‘Howay in beside the fire, it’s too cold to stay long in there.’
‘Leave it for now,’ Theda whispered to Clara. ‘There’s still a chance your period is just late. You’ve let yourself get right down on the bottom. Look how thin you are! Anyway, try not to worry too much. I’m sure the lad won’t let you down.’
Though even as she said it she wondered: What did any of them know about these young lads from the other side of the world? If it
was
him. She was shocked at her own thought. How could she think her sister was promiscuous?
Theda put her arm around Clara. ‘Bear up now,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t want to worry Mam if it’s only a false alarm.’
‘No.’ Clara shook her head.
‘I’ll have to be getting back, you know what Home Sister is like,’ she said to Bea as the two girls went back into the kitchen. The room was filled with a rich aroma from the cake baking in the oven despite its make-shift ingredients.
‘Aye, standing there with a stop watch in her hand,’ said Bea. ‘She forgets about the state of the buses these days.’
Theda laughed at the picture of Sister Brown standing at the door of the nurses’ home with a stop watch in her hand. Her mother was inclined to exaggeration if it enhanced her point.
‘Mam, she doesn’t,’ Theda protested.
‘Aye, well, she might as well do,’ her mother replied, unabashed.
As it happened, when Theda got to the bus stop there was a queue of twenty-odd people waiting, surprising at this time of night. They were standing quietly, huddled into their coats and blowing on their hands as they looked along the road for the sight of the blue-dimmed headlights – not grumbling though. After five years of war most people had learned there was little point in complaining. When at last the bus hove into view, the whole queue shuffled forward.

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