The Lost Days of Summer (22 page)

Mrs Hughes chuckled. ‘Well, she might not have accepted less money, but we’re getting a boiled egg with our breakfast.’ She smacked her lips. ‘There’s nothing I like better than an egg to my breakfast.’

As they walked slowly along the pavement – for Mrs Hughes was still examining every window they passed – Nell tried to break it to her friend that the theatre trips and visits to museums and galleries she had planned were scarcely possible in the time at their disposal. ‘We are supposed to be visiting Bryn, don’t forget,’ she pointed out. ‘You wouldn’t want to upset him by gadding off to the theatre when you could be by his bedside, would you?’

Mrs Hughes glanced up at Nell with a little smile, but all she said was: ‘We’ll see. It wouldn’t surprise me if we were here for a while longer than we’d planned.’

‘Not me; if you stay, you stay alone,’ Nell said as they reached the hospital and turned into the foyer. A passing nurse directed them to Wellington ward and told them that she rather thought the patient they were seeking was in a bed on the left as you went down the room.

‘It’s a long room,’ she warned them, ‘all young men who have come back from Dunkirk. Some of them . . . but you will see for yourselves soon enough.’

They did. They entered the ward, glancing rather uneasily about them, for everywhere men were in plaster casts, on traction, or heavily bandaged. There was some talk, some laughter, but for the most part the patients were quiet, and this affected both Nell and Mrs Hughes, who found themselves whispering as they trod quietly between the double row of beds.

They were almost at the end of the ward when Nell gave a frightened gasp and turned back to a patient she had just passed: a young man, his entire head swathed in bandages and a pink celluloid shield over one eye. His left arm and shoulder were plastered and his eyes were tightly closed. She grabbed Mrs Hughes’s hand. ‘Is that – can that be Bryn, the feller in the bed we’ve just passed?’ she asked tremulously. ‘I – I didn’t recognise him, probably because I was looking for his yellow curls and big grin, but there’s something . . . let’s go back.’

They retraced their steps. The young man lay on his back, very still, his face as white as the bandages which covered his head. The eye they could see was closed, his mouth a little open, but even as they stared, incredulous, the uncovered eyelid flickered, rose, drooped . . . rose again, and the boy’s tongue moisten ed his pale lips, which twitched suddenly into a brief, painful smile.

‘Nell?’ he whispered huskily. ‘Oh, I’ve prayed you’d come! When they sent the telegram I begged them to ask if you could come instead of my mam . . . oh, Nain, I didn’t see you there. I didn’t ask Mam to send you . . . how on earth . . .?’

‘We came together,’ Nell broke in, guessing that Bryn’s remark had sounded like rejection and wanting to spare Mrs Hughes’s feelings, though she thought that the older woman might not have heard the words, for she was a little deaf and Bryn’s voice had been faint. ‘We’ve booked a room not far from here. We brought your stuff; your taid packed the bag . . .’

‘Good,’ Bryn murmured. He moved a little, then winced and stayed very still for several moments, saying nothing, but Nell guessed, by the strained look on his face, that every movement was painful. When he spoke again his voice was even fainter than before, so that Nell had to bend over the bed to hear. ‘I’m so thirsty! I had a cup of tea yesterday but then I vomited . . . I’d love some of Mrs Jones’s lemonade . . . but my head thumps so! If I move even a little . . . being sick was agony . . . what’s that noise? Oh, if only someone could make them stop! Why would they let a band play in a hospital? I’m sure my head will split in two.’

Nell assured him that there was no band playing anywhere in the vicinity and put a gentle hand on his; it was hot and damp and he grasped her fingers tightly for a moment, then tried to lift her hand to his cheek, but let it drop back on the coverlet with a tiny sigh. ‘Too heavy,’ he moaned. ‘I can’t . . .’

Their conversation had been in Welsh and now Nell turned to stare at Mrs Hughes with frightened eyes, addressing her in the same language. ‘He’s most awfully ill,’ she murmured. ‘I think we ought to get a nurse . . . ah, here comes someone, thank God!’

A nurse in a dark blue dress with a crisp white apron over it and a starched cap on her smooth hair came rustling up the ward and frowned reprovingly when she reached Nell and her companion. ‘Are you related to this young man?’ she asked, her voice low. ‘He’s very ill and shouldn’t be having visitors, unless you are family, of course.’

Nell began to speak, but Mrs Hughes cut across her. ‘We’re family,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m the lad’s nain – grandmother, that is. But mebbe we’d best come back later . . . we can see he’s ill.’

The nurse nodded. ‘Very well. As you’re family I’ve a deal to say to you, but we’d best go to my office; we can talk there without fear of disturbing him.’

She led them out of the ward and into a small, functional room containing only a desk, filing cabinets and three chairs, two obviously for visitors and one behind the desk for the nurse herself. As soon as they were in the room the nurse shut the door firmly and held out her hand.

‘I’m Sister Bailey, in charge of Wellington ward. And you are . . .?’

Nell introduced Mrs Hughes and then began to explain that she was an old friend, but the sister cut her short. ‘The whole ward has heard of you, Miss Whitaker,’ she said, smiling for the first time. ‘When he was delirious young Bryn talked of nothing but his Nell, saying that if she came to see him he knew he would get better. Well, stranger things have happened, and now that you are here I hope there’ll be an improvement.’

‘I don’t know what difference my presence will make,’ Nell began, then said what was in the forefront of her mind. ‘Only could you tell us please, Sister, just what is the matter with Bryn? We heard he was hit over the head and nearly drowned . . .’

‘He has a head wound,’ the sister acknowledged. ‘It runs diagonally across his crown and halfway down his cheek. Unfortunately it has done some damage to his right eye, but the doctor thinks he’ll recover completely. He has a broken shoulder and a couple of cracked ribs as well, but he’s young and those will also mend, leaving little or no trace. When he was admitted he was in a poor way, and within a day or so he began to run a very high fever. He was talking wildly, but since he did so in Welsh there was little we could do to help him save telegraph his mother, asking that she visit. She couldn’t stay very long, but promised that someone else would come as soon as it could be arranged.’ She smiled brightly at them. ‘And now you are here and very soon, I feel sure, the young man will turn the corner to recovery.’

After Nell had asked and received permission to come back later armed with the lemonade the patient craved, the two women left the hospital, but as soon as they were back on Stanley Road Mrs Hughes burst into floods of tears, making a great deal of noise and causing folk to stare. Since she seemed unable to stem the flow, Nell steered her into the nearest café, ordered tea and buns for two, and asked her, somewhat impatiently, just what was the matter. ‘I know Bryn’s ill, but crying isn’t going to help him,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘When we go back to the ward this evening I shall take a fan with me as well as a large bottle of lemonade, and sit there fanning his poor hot face and talking quietly of the good times we’ve known. Perhaps that will help.’

Mrs Hughes sniffed and nodded, then began to cry again, though more quietly this time, letting the tears form in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks without the wailing which had accompanied her first transports of misery.

Nell waited until the tea and buns had been delivered, then poured two cups and pushed one across to her companion. ‘Drink that and tell me what’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Remember, Bryn’s alive, and that’s what matters most.’

‘Yes . . . but it’s all my fault, all my fault,’ Mrs Hughes said, folding her hands round the cup but not attempting to drink the tea. ‘I kept saying I wanted to stay here longer, so we could go to the theatre and see the museums and that. I never give our Bryn bein’ poorly a thought, ’cos I were sure he’d come up smilin’, like what he always does. I brung it on him, that’s what I done, wi’ me talk of enjoying a visit to a big city . . . oh, Nell, a wicked old woman I am!’

‘Well, you can make up for your wickedness, if you want to call it that, by spending every spare moment by Bryn’s bed until he’s better,’ Nell said. ‘We’ll walk down the road until we find a shop that sells books, and I’ll buy one or two and we can take it in turns to read to him. Nothing too exciting, just quiet country tales, I think.’

Mrs Hughes gulped, took a drink of tea, and shook her head. ‘I can’t read English and I don’t suppose they’ll have books writ in God’s own language,’ she said sadly. She brightened. ‘I could tell him Bible stories, though – the Prodigal Son what was cast off by his wicked brothers and Samson pulling down the pillars, and the dogs eating the unrighteous when the wall of Jericho came tumblin’ down . . .’

Nell bit back the words
Oh yes, just the sort of thing to cheer up an invalid
, and said they would have to see how Bryn went on. ‘Once he comes out of the fever he’ll probably want to read for himself,’ she said tactfully. ‘In fact, when I leave he could read to you whilst you sit by his bed and knit, or sew, or just hold his hand.’

Mrs Hughes, however, looked thoroughly alarmed by this suggestion. ‘But where would you be?’ she quavered. ‘I thought it would be you sittin’ by his bed. I’m sure he’d sooner have a pretty young girl beside him than his old nain!’

‘I’ve got to go back; I promised Auntie Kath,’ Nell said at once. ‘You’ll be all right. You like the city, you’ve been saying so ever since we arrived.’

‘I like it when you’re wi’ me to keep me safe; I wouldn’t like it at all by meself,’ the old woman insisted. ‘And it’s you, cariad, what our Bryn wants, not me. Say you’ll stay. Promise me you won’t leave my poor boy!’

‘I’m not promising anyone anything,’ Nell said, trying to sound both determined and kind, not an easy combination. ‘Remember, he’s your favourite grandson. Surely you can stay with him until he’s well enough to go home? You really can’t expect me to abandon Auntie Kath when she needs me so badly!’

Despite Nell’s hopes, it was a full week before Bryn came out of the fever and became rational once more, though at first he was peevish, demanding her constant presence, being off-hand to the point of rudeness with his grandmother, and telling the staff he wanted a private room so that he and his girl might be alone.

Nell had to speak sternly to him – which reduced him to tears – but in the end her firmness paid off. ‘It’s not your friend speaking, it’s the weakness, as well as the blow to his masculine pride when you refused to drop into his arms,’ Sister told Nell. ‘Give him another day or so and he’ll begin to cheer up.’

She was right. After they had been two and a half weeks in the city, Bryn actually came down the ward to meet them, grinning, and catching first his grandmother and then Nell in an exuberant hug. ‘Where’s me kecks?’ he said in a mock Liverpudlian accent, releasing Nell with one last squeeze. ‘Sister says I can dress tomorrow, though the cast on my arm means I’ll not get into a shirt for a while.’

‘We brought your stuff when we first arrived, but the staff took the clothing away,’ Nell said. ‘Ask them. If it’s all right for you to dress, they’ll doubtless hand it over.’

She and Mrs Hughes had been taking it in turns to stay with Bryn, though he made no secret of the fact that he would have preferred to have Nell’s undivided attention at all times. However, she did not intend to let Bryn monopolise her and told him severely that since she was in the city of her birth she must visit her many relatives, for once they knew she was back in Liverpool everyone would want to see her, from the oldest to the youngest. Furthermore, she needed time away from Bryn and the hospital, and knew it would do Bryn good to be with his nain for a bit, chattering away in Welsh.

This afternoon it was Nell’s turn to spend time with Bryn, so the old lady gave her grandson one last hug and left, saying she would go back to their lodgings. ‘Mrs Trelawney and me are going to take a look at this Paddy’s Market I’ve heard so much about,’ she said. ‘See you later, Nell.’

‘Oh, Bryn, you look almost like your old self,’ Nell said as the two of them went along to the day room, deserted at this hour, and settled in two comfortable chairs. ‘Thank goodness, because I really must go back to Auntie Kath, you know, and I couldn’t possibly have left you the way you were when we first arrived in Liverpool.’

‘If you leave me now I shall stop getting better and go back to being really ill again, I know I will,’ Bryn said at once. ‘Please stay until I’m well enough to leave this horrible place, cariad! It’s you who’ve made me well, and if you go—’

‘Nonsense,’ Nell said briskly. ‘It would be just as good if your nain was here. The pair of you chatter away in Welsh as it is, and sometimes you speak so fast that I can’t follow what’s being said.’

‘She’s my gran, not my girlfriend,’ Bryn said unanswerably. He smiled sweetly at Nell, and then his expression grew crafty. ‘I know you want to go back to Ty Hen before I’m well enough to go as well, so if you’ll promise me that you’ll marry me when I come home . . .’

‘Oh, Bryn, don’t be so daft,’ Nell said, giggling. ‘I’m only just sixteen and you’re seventeen; much too young for marriage.’

‘All right, then promise me we’ll get engaged; I’ve not spent any money whilst I’ve been cooped up here, so I can afford to buy you a ring,’ Bryn said. ‘Go on, be kind to me! All the fellows on the good old
Scotia
had girlfriends; some of them were younger than me even. Go on, promise!’

‘I won’t,’ Nell said stoutly. ‘Think about it, Bryn. You’re the only feller I know at all well on the island, and you know scarcely any girls . . .’

‘I do know girls then, lots and lots,’ Bryn insisted. ‘I’ve lived in Holyhead all my life, just about, so I know everyone and some of the girls are crackers, pretty as pictures. But I’ve never met a girl I liked the way I like you. Say you’ll be my – my – what’s the word? Oh yes, fiancée. And if you change your mind – or I change mine, only I won’t – then that will be all right, too.’