The Glory Girls (20 page)

‘In that case, I’m lucky to be alive, but …’ Once more Grace held him down as he tried to rise, the look on her face telling him that she didn’t exactly agree with what he had just said.

Someone spoke from the shadows and Grace glanced over her
shoulder
, but she didn’t reply. She touched the back of her hand to Alex’s cheek, then started bathing his face.

‘I persuaded them to bring you with us,’ she was saying in a low voice. ‘They didn’t want the responsibility, but when I told them you were a doctor, they agreed to get you to a safe house where your medical skills will be much needed. That’s the best I can do, Alex.’

Alex frowned, trying to make sense of what she was saying, then the truth dawned on him.

‘They are Resistance fighters?’ he asked and saw a glint in her eyes as she started sponging down his body. ‘If that’s the case, then you must be…?’

‘I’m nobody, Alex,’ she said. ‘And tomorrow you must forget that you ever saw me. Lives depend upon it. I was your nursing sister and perished on the beach at Dunkirk, along with so many others.’

It was another few days before Alex felt some strength seeping back into his body. On the fourth day, Grace bade him farewell.

‘Tomorrow, they will take you to a safe house,’ she said. ‘I can’t come with you, Alex.’

‘Where will you go?’ he asked, watching her restless movements as she paced the earthen floor in front of him.

For reply, she gave a small shake of her head and rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold, though the room was hot and airless.

The next morning she was gone and Alex was on the move again, lying beneath a dirty tarpaulin that smelled of pigs or sheep. He was wedged in among sacks of vegetables. There was the
clip-clop
sound of a
plodding
horse and a low rumble of French conversation. He stirred, but heard a quick warning.

‘
Non, monsieur. C’est trop dangereux. Restez là
.’ It was a deep, male voice, thick with a regional accent that he did not recognize.

They stopped the cart some miles down the road at the edge of a forest and allowed him to sit up. Which was when he realized he had been stripped of his uniform and dressed in rough country clothes that gave off as much smell as the tarpaulin. The men driving the cart in which he was riding looked like farmers, but he guessed they were members of the newly formed French underground movement.

One of them gave a wide grin and pointed across the valley that was opening up before them. In the distance there was a chateau. The man nodded, then indicated that Alex should hunker back down out of sight. He gave a click of his tongue and the old horse started up again.

Alex was surprised to find that they had brought him right up to the chateau, where they were greeted loudly by an elderly French couple and a group of excitedly yapping dogs. There was a loud conversation, but there were also a few words conducted in guarded whispers. Suddenly the tarpaulin was whipped off and one of the Frenchmen pointed to a sack of cabbages and jerked his head towards a large shed to the side of the chateau.

Alex wasn’t sure that his legs would support him, but he lost no time in grabbing the sack, limping, staggering with it to the shed, where another man was waiting.

‘Take off your clothes,’ the man ordered in perfect English and Alex blinked at him, seeing that the fellow was already scrambling out of his own outer garments. ‘Go on and be quick about it.’

They exchanged clothes. Alex was pleased that he got the best of the bargain, for the clothes the young man had given him were at least clean, even if they were not very comfortable, being on the small side.

‘What happens now?’ Alex asked.

‘You’ll find out. Stay out of sight. There are collaborators everywhere.’

The man sauntered out into the sunlight, whistling. He joined the other two men at the cart and they began carrying in the other sacks of vegetables, but before they reached the shed, Alex felt a light touch on his shoulder and an old Frenchwoman indicated that he should go through a gaping trap-door in the ground. As the trap-door shut above his head, Alex heard the sacks of vegetables being placed over it.

‘Welcome to our hospital, sir!’

He had come through a long passageway that opened up into a large, vaulted cellar. There were makeshift beds, some of them occupied, a table with basic surgical instruments and a Primus stove on which bubbled a large cauldron full of onion soup, a plate of grey-looking bread and strong-smelling cheese on a stool beside it.

The young man who spoke was bare to the waist and wore only a pair of bloodstained shorts. He appeared to be in mid-surgical procedure.

‘What the hell is this place?’ Alex asked, wavering about like a
drunkard
and wishing he could sit down, but he couldn’t see a vacant chair, just vacant-eyed airmen, some of them wearing the Canadian Army insignia.

‘Underground hospital, sir. Men get shot down. The Resistance
chappies 
bring them here to be patched up. We keep them until they’re well enough to make their own way to the Pyrenees, then they have to walk over the passes into Spain. Some of them actually make it.’

‘Where are we, exactly?’

‘It’s a safe house. Just outside Toulouse.’

‘I see. And you are a doctor? A surgeon?’ The lad didn’t look old enough to be either.

‘A medic, sir. Trained in the field, you might say. Needs must when the devil drives and all that. You any good with the needle, sir? This man needs stitching up. I think I got all the shrapnel out, but stitching isn’t my forte. Never could stand the sight of a needle.’

Alex looked down at the young medic’s hands and saw that they were shaking so much it was unlikely he would be able to hold the needle, let alone stitch up the wounds.

‘It’s been a long night, sir,’ the young soldier said by way of
explanation
. ‘I’ve been on my own since the last doctor went out for a smoke and never came back. Don’t know what happened to him, sir.’

‘If I could sit down to it, I’ll manage,’ Alex said, flexing his stiff fingers. ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Jenkins, sir. Private Arthur Jenkins. They tell me you’re the real thing.’

Alex gave a weak laugh as the young man pushed a broken chair behind his knees and he sank down on it. ‘Right now, I’m more patient than doctor. Name’s Captain Alex Craig. I was a general practitioner back in England, but since I’ve been in France I’ve done everything but deliver babies and pull teeth.’

Jenkins nodded, then his boyish grin became serious. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, sir, but we’re up the spout, so to speak. You see, the chateau’s just been commandeered by the Gestapo. They tend to come and go a bit and never stay too long. Word has it that a party of them are arriving tomorrow.

‘So what are we supposed to do?’

‘We carry on pretty much as before, sir, but even more in secret. With a bit of luck they won’t stay too long. It’s pretty isolated out here.’

‘What if somebody gives us away?’

‘You don’t have to worry about that. Old Monsieur Laroque and his wife are on our side, and so are all their staff. Most of them work for the Resistance.’

Alex gave a resigned sigh.

‘It looks like we’re in for an interesting time, then,’ he said, rolling up
his sleeves and making a start on stitching up the cleaned wounds of the man lying face down on the bunk in front of him.

Private Jenkins placed a brown paper parcel down at his feet. ‘That arrived for you yesterday, sir. You might be needing it if we get caught.’

Alex frowned as he fingered the coarse string holding the package together. He couldn’t imagine what it might be, or who could have sent it.

‘Open it, would you, Jenkins?’

It turned out to be Alex’s own uniform, cleaned and pressed. Where there had been bullet holes they were carefully darned. Grace Forsyth, he thought. It had to be her handiwork. She had already saved his life once. It looked as though she was continuing to be his guardian angel. Without his captain’s uniform he would quite likely be shot as a spy.

‘It won’t be the same without Effie, somehow,’ Iris said, staring through the train window at the passing scenery.

‘Poor Effie,’ Mary said. ‘This war has destroyed so many lives already. I hate to think where we’ll all be by the time it’s finished.’

None of them liked to contemplate the future too much. The girls had been allowed a home visit before going to their new postings. This time they would be looking after Polish soldiers in special holding camps up in the north-west of Scotland, prior to retraining in the British Army. The place was, reportedly, as bleak as Siberia in winter, but at least it was safe. Despite its still being summer, Mary made a mental note to pack some winter clothes.

The brief visit to the family had been torn with mixed feelings. It had been wonderful to see the family again, but Mary had been forced to break off her engagement with Walter once and for all. She thought she would carry the guilt of it right through her life, especially since he was no longer a well man. He had survived the escape from Dunkirk, but the shellshock he had brought with him persisted, resulting in his needing hospital treatment. She would never forget the day she went to visit him in the hospital.

It had been quite a shock seeing him sitting there in a wheelchair,
shaking
like a jelly, eyes staring and mumbling to himself. He had cried like a baby at sight of her, then again and again at short intervals all the time she was with him. The doctors were doubtful that he would ever recover totally, and might even go further into a vegetative state.

‘What did Walter say when you broke off your engagement?’ Iris said suddenly, making her start. ‘Was he upset?’

‘I couldn’t tell him,’ Mary said with a sigh. ‘I told his parents…. Goodness, Iris, how did you know what I was thinking?’

‘You had that awful sad face on you,’ Iris said. ‘I knew it had to be either Walter or … well, you know.’

Mary knew only too well what Iris was getting at. The worst news of all had been blurted out quite innocently by her mother. Jenny West’s words rang constantly in Mary’s head. She couldn’t seem to get rid of them.
That poor Dr Craig’s been reported missing, believed dead. He was supposed to be with the Dunkirk lot, but he didn’t make it, apparently. Someone saw him get a bullet, then he went down in the sea, poor soul.

‘It wasn’t meant to be, Iris,’ Mary told her friend, blinking furiously to stop the tears that were stinging her eyelids. ‘You know … me and Alex Craig.’

‘Did you and he actually … you know…?’

Mary bit down on her mouth and stared at her hands that were clasped tightly in her lap. She shook her head. ‘We had feelings for each other right from the start. I know it was wrong, but … Oh, Iris, if only he had lived … I’m sure we could have been so happy.’

‘Stop it! Stop it this instant, Mary West.’ Iris gave an agonized cry and searched for her hankie. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about Gaston and wondering where he is and if … Oh, hell, now you’ve got me
blubbering
.’

Mary gave a sniff, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, feeling ashamed. Here she was in her brand new FANY uniform and she was behaving disgracefully. There was more to life than dwelling on the bad things, like Iris and her Frenchman, and Effie who might never walk again. Walter might end his days as a gibbering idiot. And Alex … dear, sweet, gorgeous Alex, whom she had fallen in love with on such short acquaintance – he was lying under the sea, or mangled on a beach at Dunkirk and it was all for nothing. So many lives destroyed.
For nothing
.

Put an end to all this self-pity, Mary West. Get hold of yourself, girl, and get on with your life. You don’t stop fighting until there’s nothing left to fight for.

There was a great reunion when Mary and Iris met up again with their unit in Glasgow before going further onward to the Polish camps on the west coast of Scotland. It was a case of laughter and tears as they did a head count to find out who was still attached and who was missing. Kate Holland and Sally Ferguson were there, but Alice Leatherby had
mysteriously
disappeared, her absence explained in couched terms such as:
I 
think she was going to be married. Damned good job, too, since she was so-so, if you ask me.

Everyone was sad to hear about Effie Donaldson. She had never
integrated
with the unit, but her reliability and her bravery had astonished them all. And then there was Anne Beasley. No one seemed to know anything about her.

‘There was always something not quite right about Beasley,’ said one girl, her face twisting. ‘Couldn’t quite make her out.’

‘She thought herself a bit above the rest of us, I think,’ said another. ‘I don’t know why, just because she’d lived in France and spoke French and German like a native.’

‘I think she was just reserved,’ Mary said, needing to be loyal to her childhood memories of times spent with Anne in France. ‘Not a people person.’

‘You can say that again. Not FANY material either, I would say. Got the jitters at the mere whiff of trouble.’

Mary saw Iris glance warily her way and guessed that she was
remembering
how she had fallen foul of her nerves leading the unit to St Malo. She said nothing, but gave an encouraging smile. Nobody knew what had happened that day and there was no reason for them to be made aware of it now.

They picked up the new transport from the FANY HQ and started off on the journey up the north-western coast of Scotland. Getting away from towns and the eastern coastline had brought back to them all just how beautiful Britain really was without the brutal scars of war.

The camp to which they were allocated was indeed a bleak,
God-forsaken
place, but the Poles gave the girls a warm welcome. It was good to see them all again, Mary thought. Especially her old friend, Jan Berwinski.

‘Mary!’ He stood before her, his arms open wide, his smile genuine and his eyes betraying the fact that he believed they had already enjoyed a special kind of relationship.