Nightingales at War (11 page)

THE FURTHEST DORA
had ever been out of London was Kent, in the summers she’d spent hop-picking as a child, so travelling to Oxford felt like the other end of the world to her. The train moved slowly, inching past fields and countryside, pulling into sidings every five minutes to allow another troop train to pass. The other passengers crammed into the packed carriage threw open windows and complained about the delay and the sweltering heat, but Dora scarcely noticed as she stared unseeingly out of the window. Part of her wanted to get there quickly, but another part wanted the journey to go on for ever, so that she didn’t have to face what lay ahead of her.

At Oxford station, the porter laughed when she asked about the next bus to Fairdown Hall.

‘You’ve just missed it, love. Next one doesn’t go for another three hours. And don’t go looking for a taxi, neither, ’cos there ain’t one to be had.’

‘I’ll have to walk, then.’

‘But it’s nigh on five miles!’

‘That don’t matter. Can you point out the way?’

The porter regarded her with sympathy. ‘Your young man at the military hospital?’

Dora gritted her teeth against the pain that shot through her. ‘My husband,’ she muttered.

‘My boy was at Dunkirk. Bad business, that was.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘He made it back all right, but plenty of his mates didn’t. Bad business.’ He looked at Dora, then consulted his watch and said, ‘Look here, the next train ain’t due for another two hours. Why don’t I give you a lift up to the Hall? You’ll have to walk back, mind, but at least I can get you there.’

Dora blinked at him, shocked by his unexpected kindness. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘No trouble at all, love.’ He smiled at her. ‘I expect you’ll be keen to see your husband, eh?’

Dora hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am.’

As they made their way through the narrow country lanes, Dora was glad of the porter’s kindness. She might never have found her way otherwise. It wasn’t at all like the streets of London, full of familiar buildings and landmarks to guide her way. Here it was nothing but endless trees and hedgerows, with not even a signpost to mark the way.

‘They took ’em all down a few weeks back,’ the porter explained. ‘Meant to confuse the Germans if they invade, but it’s just a bloody nuisance for the rest of us. Pardon my French.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll have to remember the way for when you come back. Although I daresay someone will be coming to the station, if you ask ’em.’ He sent her a sideways look. ‘What happened to your husband, then?’

‘He was shot in the chest.’

Dora stared out of the window, watching the scenery roll past, thinking about Nick. She was grateful that Miss Hanley had managed to organise her visit, but at the same time she’d had several sleepless nights wondering what she might find when she finally saw him.

‘He’ll be all right.’ The porter’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘He’s in good hands. Those nurses, they really look after ’em up at the Hall.’

Dora caught his look and realised her fears must have shown on her face. She forced herself to smile back, grateful again for his kindness.

‘I know,’ she said.

Fairdown Hall had once been a girls’ boarding school. But the dormitories had been turned into wards, and the outside tennis courts given over to rows of military vehicles. Dora made her way up the drive, grateful yet again for the porter’s offer of a lift. It was another glorious June day, with the sun blazing out of a cloudless blue sky, and just walking up the drive was enough to send rivulets of perspiration running down the back of her neck. How she would have felt after walking five miles she didn’t know.

The house itself was beautiful, with mullioned windows and ivy creeping over its mellow stone walls the colour of honey. On the spreading lawns in front of the house, wounded servicemen in wheelchairs sat under the dappled shade of trees, enjoying the sunshine.

The front doors were open and Dora stepped into the cool shade of the grand entrance hall, with marble floors, wood-panelled walls and a wide, sweeping staircase before her. It might have been a palace, but for the nurses and VADs going back and forth.

An elderly porter emerged from a doorway to greet her. He bore such a remarkable resemblance to the Nightingale’s own Head Porter Mr Hopkins, short and stocky with a bristling moustache and an air of self-importance, that Dora almost laughed in spite of her nerves.

‘Can I help you, Miss?’ he asked.

‘I’ve come to see one of your patients – Private Nick Riley?’ She clenched her hands together to stop herself shaking as she said his name. ‘I’m Mrs Riley. His wife.’

The man opened up a large ledger in front of him. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘I’m not sure . . . I think someone from the War Office telephoned to say I was coming.’

The man looked impressed. ‘The War Office, eh? Let’s see . . .’ He consulted the list in his ledger. ‘Well, there’s no sign of a Mrs Riley here. Do you have an appointment card?’

‘Do I need one?’

He looked up at her, his eyes sharp over his bristling moustache. ‘This is a military hospital, Madam. Everyone needs an appointment.’

‘But I was told I could come. It was all arranged by—’

‘The War Office. So you say.’ The porter sent her a sceptical look. ‘But no one comes in here without an appointment card. Not even Mr Churchill himself.’

Looking at his truculent face, Dora could almost believe it. ‘But I’ve come all the way from London!’ Her nerves, already at breaking point, began to stretch a little thinner.

‘I don’t care if you’ve come from Timbuctoo. Rules are rules.’

Dora glared at him. He looked as if he was enjoying every minute of his job. She thought again about Mr Hopkins, and the satisfaction he always seemed to get from reporting nurses to Matron.

‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait.’

He stared at her. ‘What do you mean, wait?’

‘I’ll wait here until you let me see my husband.’ She dumped her bag at her feet.

‘But – you can’t do that!’

‘Why not? I won’t be in the way. And I’ve slept in worst places than this, I assure you.’

She pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her arms firmly to let the porter know she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘I’ll have you removed,’ he threatened.

‘Try it.’

Their eyes met and held. The man blustered with impotent rage, but Dora ignored him. Finally, he gave in. ‘I’ll let Sister West know you’re here,’ he said, waving over one of the other porters. ‘But I’m warning you, if she doesn’t give her permission then that’s it.’

Luckily, Sister West turned out to be more helpful than the porter. She came down the sweeping staircase to greet Dora herself. She was in her forties, a tall, graceful woman who reminded Dora very much of Miss Fox, with her pleasant smile and serene manner.

‘Mrs Riley,’ she greeted her. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting. We had a telephone call from the War Office to tell us you were coming, although the message obviously didn’t get through to everyone.’ She glanced meaningfully at the man behind the desk.

‘How’s Nick?’ Dora was so anxious she forgot her manners, blurting out the question that had been burning in her mind all the way from London.

Sister West smiled. ‘He’ll be all the better for seeing you, I imagine. Come up to the ward, and we’ll talk on the way.’

They climbed the staircase. Grand-looking portraits in gilded frames frowned down on Dora as she passed.

As they approached the ward, Sister West explained that Nick had suffered a gunshot wound to his upper chest that had missed his heart by a few inches. ‘To be honest with you, Mrs Riley, it was a miracle he survived,’ she said. ‘And it was an even bigger miracle that the medics did a final sweep of the beach and found him, otherwise he might have been left for dead . . .’

Dora’s knees buckled and she gripped the polished banister rail to stop herself from stumbling.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to alarm you.’ Sister West’s face was full of concern. ‘I can assure you, your husband is making an excellent recovery. His will to live is very strong indeed. I wish all my patients were like him.’

Dora thought about poor Private Gerrard. His will to live had been strong, too. But sometimes willpower wasn’t enough.

His widow would have received his belongings by now. They were all she had left to remember him by. Whatever happened, at least Dora had been given the chance to see Nick again. She was grateful for that, at least.

Sister West pushed open the door to the ward. ‘Right, here we are,’ she said. ‘Your husband’s bed is out on the balcony, down there on the right.’

It was all so familiar to her: the smell of disinfectant, the rows of beds and the busy, purposeful air of the nurses and VADs moving between them. It felt very strange for Dora not to be with them, tending to the patients.

She saw Nick before he saw her. His bed was out on the covered balcony, facing away from the rest of the ward. He had his back to her as he stared out across the grounds. She fought the desperate urge to throw herself into his arms.

‘If you’ve come to tell me I need to occupy my time, you can bugger off,’ he threw carelessly over his shoulder as she approached. ‘I’m all right as I am, thanks very much.’

‘I hope you’re not being a difficult patient, Nick Riley?’

He turned round quickly, wincing with pain. ‘Dora?’

She barely recognised him, his dark curls shorn into a severe army haircut. He’d lost weight, and his face seemed all harsh planes and sunken hollows. There was a line of scars and yellowing bruises across his jutting cheekbones and flattened boxer’s nose.

‘What are you doing here?’ He blinked at her.

‘Oh, you know. I was just passing and thought I’d drop in.’ She grinned with delight at the stunned look on his face. It wasn’t often anyone caught Nick Riley unawares.

He recovered his composure, giving her that slanted half smile that she had missed so much. ‘I’m glad you did.’ He looked her up and down, devouring her with his inky blue eyes. ‘I’m surprised you managed to get past the front desk, though. They never let anyone in.’

‘I’ve got friends in high places, ain’t I? Besides, I told the porter I wasn’t going anywhere till I’d seen you.’

His mouth twisted. ‘That’s my girl. You never give up without a fight, do you?’

‘Nor do you, from what I hear.’

His smile faded. ‘I suppose not,’ he said quietly.

Dora sat down beside his bed. ‘So how are you?’ she asked, diverting her gaze from the dressings that swathed his broad chest.

‘Oh, I’ll live.’

She recognised his dismissive reply. It was the same thing she heard every day from the soldiers on the ward. Some were desperate to talk about their experiences, to share their stories with anyone who might listen. Others played it down, kept it locked away inside, unable to give voice to what had happened to them.

Dora wished she could ask Nick what she needed to know. But he was like her, he kept his feelings to himself. He might tell her one day, but only when he was good and ready.

‘Never mind about me anyway,’ he dismissed. ‘How are you? How are the kids?’

‘They’re fine. Getting bigger every day. They’ll be toddling soon, I expect.’

‘Their first steps, eh? Shame I won’t be there to see it.’

Dora saw his expression falter, and hastened to cheer him up. ‘I’ve brought you something . . .’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘We went to the photographer’s and had it taken a few weeks ago, on the twins’ birthday. I was going to send it to you, but . . .’

Her voice trailed off. Two weeks after the family photograph was taken, the evacuation of Dunkirk had begun. ‘Anyway, it’s a good likeness of the kids, don’t you think?’ she went on.

Nick stared at the photograph and Dora could see his face working as he struggled not to cry. ‘They’ve got so big. I bet they’ll hardly recognise me when they next see me.’

Dora caught the trace of sadness flitting across his face. ‘Of course they will,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re their dad.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look at Danny’s face. It’s a real picture, ain’t it? I don’t think he could make out what was happening at all.’

‘I’m not surprised. No one’s ever taken his picture before.’ Nick smiled fondly at the image of his beloved brother. ‘Can I keep it?’

‘Of course. I brought it for you.’

‘Put it there, on the locker, where I can see it.’

Dora propped the photo against the water jug. ‘There, that should be all right.’ All the time she was aware she was trying to keep herself busy, doing silly little things to ignore the fact that her husband was gasping so painfully for every breath. Trying to convince herself that everything was normal and that Nick wasn’t in a hospital bed recovering from a gunshot that had nearly claimed his life.

Recovering. She clung to the word desperately. Nick was alive, and he was recovering. He was luckier than many, and so was she.

They chatted about inconsequential things. Dora told him how well they’d settled back in Griffin Street, funny little stories about the twins and the rest of the family. She even told him about Octavius the rabbit.

‘Nanna keeps talking about cooking him, but she picks him up and cuddles him when she thinks no one’s looking,’ she said. ‘When I came home the other night he was in the house sitting at her feet like a pet dog. She reckoned she didn’t want to leave him out in the rain.’

Nick laughed. ‘Your nanna always was contrary!’

After a while, Dora stopped thinking about his injuries. It was as if they were together in London again, and he’d just come home from work and she was telling him some funny tale.

‘I wish I could see them all again,’ Nick said suddenly.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘You will,’ she promised. She hesitated. She didn’t want to ruin their time together by thinking about the future, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Have they said anything about what’s going to happen?’

His expression darkened. ‘Not really. But I’ve been told once I recover they’ll send me back.’

She forced herself to stay composed. ‘Do you mind going back?’