A Girl in Wartime (31 page)

‘Feel it, do yuh?'

She glanced at him in alarm.

He smiled as he gazed over the rail into the water, not looking at her. ‘Not nice. Don't look at the water, lass. Keep yuh eyes on the horizon. Helps calm yuh insides.' With that, he moved away as some mates hailed him.

She did as she'd been advised and began to feel a bit better, but lonely. She thought of Stephen, wished she wasn't here, wished she was at work. It was Wednesday, and they would have been preparing to go out for a dinner together this evening.

To quell the tears that had gathered in her eyes, she lifted them to the horizon. Some naval ships had joined them, their guns manned by the crew as protection from U-boats. This was a danger she had not expected. What if a U-boat got through the convoy? This, a troop carrier, was full of men sent to kill Germans – a target important enough to be hounded, sunk if possible.

She hadn't thought of that. What had Mathieson got her into? Anger swelled in her breast. When she got back home –
please God, let me get back home
– she would expose him for the self-seeking liar she now knew him to be. And she the stupid cow who'd let herself be so deceived – if Stephen only knew.

She was glad to finally land, file down the gangplank with the VAD nurses, followed by the troops. Whisked off to the hospital some half a mile away, she was met by a nursing sister. Tall, thin, straight-faced, of maybe forty years, she regarded her with what looked like disdain.

‘You are …?' she began in a full-blooded tone.

‘Miss Lovell. From the
London Herald
. I've been sent here to—'

‘I have already been informed of the reason, Miss Lovell,' she broke in, turning to lead the way into the hospital, a low, one-storied building that appeared to have been built some hundred years ago. ‘I do not feel that you should be here,' she went on, leading the way down a long, low corridor, clean but not very well lit, that opened at intervals on to long, narrow wards. ‘But now you are here, I'll thank you not to get in the way of my nurses and to make yourself as invisible as possible. Do what you have to do and leave my nurses to do what they have to.' She stopped beside a closed door and turned to face her, a cold, stiff expression on her face. ‘Do you understand, Miss Lovell?' As Connie nodded, the woman went on, ‘I am Sister Connally. You will address me as Sister.' She indicated the door beside which she now stood. ‘Your room. Not exactly the Ritz but it will serve for the short time you are here. I leave you to sort out your belongings.' Connie nodded, but Sister Connally had more to say. ‘When you are ready, go to the desk at the end of this corridor. They will inform you where you are to go. I'll not have you going about the hospital without supervision. Do you understand, Miss Lovell?'

Again Connie nodded. The woman turned on her heel to march with amazing speed along the corridor, disappearing around a corner to her right.

So much for her first introduction to this place. She had been asked to sit more or less out of sight and not get in the way of overworked staff, which made it much harder to sketch the patients themselves.

Not that she'd any heart in it after her first glimpse of the appallingly shattered bodies and faces of the once handsome young men, their features torn to shreds, parts missing altogether. Those choking from or blinded by poison gas, maybe lost for ever in darkness. The sight made her cringe from the first moment so that she found herself totally unable to sketch any of it. If Mathieson could see what she was seeing, would he have been so keen to put such sights in his paper? She didn't think so.

She did manage to draw something. The lucky ones – blighty ones – seemed to count their own injuries as fortunate, getting them out of the war for good. Many with lost limbs did look traumatised, others relieved, glad to be done with the war and going home, even calling lost limbs a good wound in getting the sufferer home away from all this.

These she did sketch: that look of utter relief, despite the often hideous pain of the wounds, was something to see. She was sure her newspaper's readers would gain hope from such sketches. As for the others, she could hardly bring herself to depict that look in their eyes. She'd begun having disturbed sleep; each time her eyes closed, some frightful sight would invade her brain. Wide awake she would still see it – think though she might of other things.

She couldn't get Ronnie out of her mind as she sat to one side one day observing one stricken man unable to keep a single limb still. An officer at that, his temple bandaged, he must have felt he had no hope left of the life he'd once enjoyed. Shell shock. She thought of Ronnie with that same staring, vacant look; there was nothing one could do.

Ronnie had improved. Connie had got used to seeing a slight twitch to his head every now and again, and his hands hardly shook now. Dolly, sweet Dolly, trusted him to hold his daughter. His small family had done more for him than any hospital could. In Connie's opinion, no one could have done any better job on him than that little girl.

But not every man in this hospital would get that luck. And here she was, little more than an intruder as she sat half-concealed, trying to convey these tortured souls on paper, while attempting to stop her pencil from shaking. Her heart hardened towards the man who had tricked her into coming out here, the man who wanted sketches of traumatised men in order to increase the paper's readership.

After a week she'd had enough. Trauma, loss of sleep – all for a bloody newspaper, so it could sell even more – a feather in its cap! And there was something else too; a letter had arrived, and its contents called her home.

She sought out Sister Connally. ‘I've done all I can,' she lied. ‘I think I should go home now.'

‘I think you should, Miss Lovell.' The woman's tone was cold. Connie had seen the compassionate look Sister Connally gave her patients, and saw herself as the woman must see her – an interloper – intruding into the private lives of men whose lives had been changed for ever, and all so her paper could sell more copies.

It was good to board the boat, now full of wounded returning home. Not once did she feel seasick though the sea reared up, the ship careering like a broken rocking horse. All she could think of was the letter she'd got yesterday. It had been from Stephen.

She had been certain that their wedding was off even before she'd read it. She'd wept, unable even to slit open the flap. A nurse had found her crying silently, the envelope on her lap. ‘Bad news?' she'd asked, and when Connie hadn't replied, had gently taken it from her, saying, ‘You haven't even opened it, dear. How can you think it bad news? Shall I open it for you?' she had offered. She'd said nothing as the single sheet was taken out and handed to her. ‘Do you want me to stay while you read it?' she'd asked. ‘It may be good news.' She'd shaken her head, watching the nurse leave to go about her duties.

The letter, written in short terms, had her in fresh tears, this time with joy and relief.

So angry. Wish you'd told me the facts. Confronted Mathieson, seems he had no authority to force you into going. None of the directors were aware of it. All he wanted was to feather his own nest. Had a meeting with the board of directors and they're appalled, want you back immediately, said there's no reason to send any woman unless she's a nurse able to deal with cases she'd come upon, or a volunteer. Mathieson will be dismissed prior to a hearing and I've arranged for you to come home straight away. I love you, Stephen.

P.S. By the way, I've been looking for a really nice house for us to move in to as soon as we're married, and intend on putting a deposit down as soon as you've seen it.

Suddenly Connie could see a life of comfort stretching on for ever for them both. Hastily she had scribbled a note to him saying indeed she would be coming home immediately.

Stephen was at the London Docks to meet her. As she stepped on to the gangplank ahead of the stream of battletorn men, she saw him standing there below her. He had seen her too, and was waving. Her heart soared. By the time she had stepped on to home soil, he was hurrying towards her to wrap his arms about her.

‘Thank God you're safe!'

‘I was always safe,' she laughed, almost smothered by his embrace. ‘But all the suffering I saw. I could never be a nurse. I can't begin to praise them enough. I—'

‘Well, you're home now, my love,' he broke in.

‘I'm so sorry about all that business. I was so frightened of you losing your job. I had no other choice but to—'

‘That's all behind us now,' he cut in again. ‘Come on, my love, I've a cab waiting. I'm taking you straight home.'

In the taxi he explained how he had gone up to Mathieson's office, demanding he recall Connie and telling the man that he knew about the blackmail. Mathieson had threatened to make it bad for him with the powers-that-be. But Stephen had called his bluff and taken it further. It transpired that the board knew nothing of what had been going on.

‘So he's gone,' Stephen concluded, cuddling her to him in the taxi. ‘Dismissed. Where he goes to from there, I don't care one hoot! And I'm going upstairs – being promoted to the position of chief editor. I was informed that I've been here for enough years and doing good enough work to deserve the promotion.' He laughed. ‘More like relieving the guilty consciences, I reckon.'

‘I think it's more you having the strength to expose him,' she said.

‘Or trying to make amends for all that's happened,' he insisted, his arm around her drawing her closer.

‘Well, I don't think it matters any more,' she said, turning her face to his to have him kiss her long and ardently, not caring whether the cabbie was watching or not.

‘And also,' he whispered as they reluctantly broke away, ‘I think it has a lot more to do with my settling down and getting married again. A soberly married man is seen as a more reliable employee.' He ended with a chuckle then suddenly grew serious. ‘What I want is to have you out of that office as soon as possible. No more of your being sent out on tasteless jobs just to gain the paper even more prestige. What I'd like to do is bring our wedding forward.'

Connie felt a tingle of excitement go through her. ‘When?' she asked.

He thought for a moment. ‘September, early September like we had planned, before all the trees start thinking of losing their leaves,' he mused poetically.

‘What trees?' She gave a silly laugh, feeling suddenly giddy with joy. ‘How many trees do you see in this part of London?'

‘In all the London parks,' he answered, and she laughed again, but he had grown serious. ‘I'd like it to be even sooner but it takes time to make all the arrangements – the church, the ceremony, the honeymoon, your wedding dress, my wedding suit.' He sounded like a small boy excited at the prospect of Christmas. ‘I need to marry you, my dearest love, as soon as possible. I want to feel normal again, you and I travelling together through this world, everything else way behind us.'

She knew what he meant. Those years of loneliness, brooding on what he had lost, had changed him. Married, he could be a normal person again.

Connie knew that she never would have met Stephen if not for working at the paper, and while at times her work had been exciting, she hated producing work that ran against her finer feelings, invading the privacy of people's shattered lives by sketching them at their lowest moments. She wanted to be an ordinary married woman in love with her husband, cooking for him, keeping their home clean and tidy, maybe join a small group of like-minded women. She and Stephen would love each other and go through life together into old age, loving and content.

The taxi had turned into her road. Stephen indicated Connie's house and the vehicle slowed noisily to a stop. Stephen whispered laughingly, ‘When this war's over I shall be able to return to using my own car again.'

As they alighted, Stephen paying off the driver, her front door opened and she saw her parents framed in the doorway. Mum had her arms held out as Connie mounted the two steps. Dad was standing back a little.

‘Oh, love,' were her mother's first words, and she held Connie to her. ‘You're 'ome at last, safe and sound. Oh, love, I was so worried.'

‘I was fine, Mum,' she said, breaking away from the embrace.

She saw her father turn and retrace his steps into the parlour where he'd come from and a dull anger gripped her heart.

Leaving her mother to kiss Stephen's cheek and bring him into the house, she followed her father into the parlour. ‘Me and Stephen have decided to bring our wedding forward to the beginning of September,' she said almost rebelliously, ‘and he's been looking for a house for us.'

She wanted to add ‘and there's nothing you can do about it', when she noticed a faint change to his expression. Shock – astonishment – deference? At that moment she could have done with paper and pencil to sketch what she was seeing, but she was finished with that; she never wanted to sketch anyone's feelings ever again. If she wanted to draw and paint, she'd paint pretty little scenes and put all that traumatic stuff behind her.

‘Do you understand what I am saying, Dad?' she challenged.

His voice came low and gruff, as always. ‘Yeh, I know what you're sayin', and I expect you want my congratulations. Well, congratulations. You've done well fer yourself, and you ain't brought trouble 'ome, cos for a long time I did fear you would. But, he's proved a good man, so congratulations.'

Connie knew that this brusque admission was the nearest her father would ever get to praise but, with a springing of her heart, she knew that he meant what he said.

When Stephen followed her mother into the room, she saw her father move towards him. He wiped his right hand down the side of his trousers before holding it out to him. ‘Evenin', and by the way, congratulations.'