War Nurse (5 page)

Half day this morning. Slept and slept and slept. Jean told me the girls popped by to see me, but she wouldn’t let them wake me. There’s a kind streak in Jean Mason.

I think one of the patients quite likes me. Anyway, he blushed when I took him his supper this evening. And that made
me
blush. It’s that young Private – Private Morris. It’s drummed into us that we mustn’t have favourites amongst the patients, and I do try to treat them all the same. So when I went back to take away his dirty plate I was a bit brisker with him. He gave me such a sad look and I just felt mean. So I gave him a big smile when I said goodnight and he smiled back, all pink again. Oh dear, I just don’t know how to treat him.

As I walked past the dorm this evening, Molly saw me. She pounced. “I want to hear all about the dance – Bunty won’t tell me anything!” she cried.

Spent the rest of the evening in the dorm, gossiping. Molly told me she thinks Bunty’s got a new flame –
I
think I know who it is!

Went on the ward today to find that screens have been placed round Private Morris’s bed. Private Morris has been here the longest of all our patients now.

Our MO was an awfully long time in there with him this morning and his face looked very grave when he came out again. Matron was with him. He had a long murmured conversation with her as they stood outside the screens.

I took Private Morris his lunch. It’s not hard to see why the doctors are so worried about him. He’s awfully thin and frail.

I sat down next to his bed. I’d cut up his food into little pieces and now I tried to persuade him to eat it. It was awful – after only one mouthful he was sick. He looked up at me shamefacedly.

“I’m sorry, miss, really sorry,” he said.

He
was sorry! I was almost in tears as I mopped up. I wish there was something more I could do for him. I wish he’d get better.

I had a bit of a shock when I reported for duty this morning. Private Morris’s bed was empty. He’s been transferred to another hospital.

I know it’s the right decision. I know that there he’ll get the specialist care he needs, but I did feel upset. I’d not even been able to say goodbye.

Molly’s hand is better now, and after work I cycled into town with her and Bunty. I cheered up a bit then. We stopped at a hotel for drinks because Bunty said she was hot and needed a long drink before cycling back.

She went very red as she said it, and she blushed each time the hotel doors swung open. I felt sure that she was expecting someone, even though she pretended she wasn’t. Anyway, whoever it was, they didn’t show, and she was quite grumpy on the way back. I asked her what was wrong. She said it was nothing. Nothing! I cycled on ahead. I felt very put out. Why wouldn’t she tell me what was going on? I thought she was my friend! And on top of everything else now we were going to be late for Roll Call. Afterwards, I stomped up to my room on my own and spent the next hour writing letters. I tore up my letter to Giles. I can’t write to him again. I’ve got to wait to hear from him first. Anyway, I don’t know
what
to say to him. I got into bed to write my diary, still feeling all cross and bothered.

Yesterday I got a scribbled note from Peter. I turned over the envelope and looked at the date. It was two weeks old.

“This is it, Sis,” he’d written hastily in pencil. “The lads are off – by the time you get this I’ll be in France. Tell Mater not to worry, won’t you? Better still, be a love and pop over to see her if you can.” That was the gist of it – Peter’s not one for letter-writing.

I felt sure that Mother was worried
. I
was worried – terribly worried – and it was that which drove me to go to church. It was a long time since I’d been, but today I felt I simply had to go.

As I walked up to the church something felt wrong. Slowly it dawned on me what it was. The church bells weren’t ringing. And they won’t ring again until the War’s over, unless it’s to warn us that the country’s been invaded.
All
the church bells will ring then. Just thinking about that made me feel a whole lot worse.

I don’t think I’ve ever prayed so hard before. I prayed for Peter – and then I prayed for that regiment. They’ll be in France too by now. And then I prayed for Giles. I don’t know what to think about Giles. I’ve still not heard from him. Has something awful happened to him? Or is it simply that he doesn’t care any more? I know I shouldn’t feel cross – especially not in church – but I did. I just don’t know whether I should be worrying about him or not.

Jean was in church too. I saw her, two rows in front of me, when I sat down in my pew again. After the sermon, when we stood for the hymn, she stayed in her seat, head bowed, as though she’d forgotten where she was. And as soon as the service was over she rushed straight out. She looked as if she wanted to be on her own, so I didn’t try to catch up with her. I found myself wondering if
she
has someone close – a brother maybe – out in France too.

Spent the evening writing to Anne and Peter and then I went to the VADs’ mess to listen to the news on the wireless. Bunty was there. She flushed, and I saw her tuck something hastily away in a pad of paper. She looked up at me and smiled, but it wasn’t much of a smile.

I sat down next to her.

“What’s wrong, Bunty?” I asked straightaway.

She flushed a deeper shade of pink.

“Come on, Bunty, ’fess,” I wheedled.

She looked down at her lap. “Sorry, Kitten, I just – I. . .”

“It’s that Lieutenant, isn’t it?” I said abruptly. “The Lieutenant we met at the dance. You like him, don’t you?”

She nodded. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. “Kitten, I meant to tell you, really I did. But . . . oh, Kitten, I do like him, but I don’t know what
he
thinks. . . I’d hoped to see him before he left. I did see him once, and he said he’d try and see me again, but he didn’t, and now I don’t know what he feels. . . If he feels. . .” her voice trailed away again.

“Oh Bunty, I’m sure he wanted to see you!” I burst out. “He’d have had a lot to do before going out to France.” I sort of mumbled the last words, for Bunty’s face was crumpling again. She blinked her eyes very fast and I felt my eyes prick too. I can’t bear thinking about them all out in France.

“How’s Giles?” Bunty asked suddenly.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “He hasn’t answered my last letter. Oh Bunty, I don’t know what to think any more.”

“Maybe he’s just very busy too,” said Bunty. “Or maybe he never even got your letter.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe,” I said.

I got up and turned up the wireless and we pulled our chairs up close to the set. Jean came in then. I saw her hesitate when she saw us sitting there so cosily together, so I told her to pull up a chair.

That gloomy newsreader was on again. The news is bad. One of our battleships,
The Royal Oak
, was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat in Scapa Flow early yesterday morning. About 700 men drowned – the ship’s commander amongst them. I hadn’t a clue where Scapa Flow was – neither did Bunty – until Jean told us that it’s between the Orkney Islands and the north coast of Scotland. Jean really does know the most extraordinary things.

I think we all felt very down after that, so Jean went down to the kitchen and returned with mugs of steaming cocoa. That cheered us all wonderfully – even Bunty perked up a bit.

Today Sister ordered me to help Nurse Winter with a dressing – a kaolin poultice for one of our patients who’s got a bad chest.

I was thrilled. After nearly two months here, they’d learn that I did know something.

“We’re a bit short of kaolin,” Nurse Winter told me, scrubbing her hands thoroughly as she talked, “so we’ll have to heat up the old poultice again.”

I watched as she inserted the poultice – a piece of lint wrapped round kaolin clay – between two pan lids over boiling water. She talked me through everything she was doing – step by step. I listened obediently, but I was longing to tell her that I’d done this myself before, during my Red Cross training.

I stood by the gleaming dressing tray and watched as Nurse Winter placed the warm poultice in position. She’d asked me to test it first on the back of my hand to make sure it wasn’t too hot for our patient’s skin. Then she looked up at me. I smiled – I knew what she was going to ask. I moved eagerly round to the far side of the bed.

“Nurse Langley, I need your help again.”

“Yes,” I said happily.

“We’re going to wrap this bandage back around the Corporal to hold the poultice in place. It’s called a many-tail bandage.”

I know that! I nearly burst out then.

“You did that very nicely, Nurse Langley,” Nurse Winter said when we’d finished. She sounded very pleased. I told myself to try and be content with that.

We’re going to throw a party for the officers. A bossy VAD’s formed a committee to take charge of the arrangements. Bunty’s joined it and tonight she dragged me along to a meeting. I discovered that I’d already been allocated a task – to organize the dance music. “It’s because you’re so musical,” I was told.

“What?” I exclaimed. Musical is one thing I’m not! And then, out of the corner of my eye I could see that Bunty was splitting her sides. She’s been pulling their legs. Bunty’s such a tease! I don’t know if she’s heard from her Lieutenant yet, but I think she must have, for she seems much more cheerful now.

The meeting had just ended when Molly stomped in, face nearly brushing the floor.

“I’m spending the next two weeks typing up forms and medical notes in the office,” she declared crossly.

I’d hate to do that job. Luckily, I won’t be. I can’t type.

I got another letter from Giles today. It was another blow-by-blow account of what he’s doing at his training school. It was pretty dull, though some of the flying does sound very exciting – spins and rolls and things like that. He’s hoping to become a Spitfire pilot.

I don’t know why he thinks I’d be interested in all that technical stuff. I’m much more interested in how he feels about
me
– and again there was nothing at all in his letter about that. Honestly, you’d think the wretched planes mattered more to him.

I told Bunty that I’d had another letter from Giles. She told me she was relieved. I could tell what she’d been thinking – that sometimes pilots are killed in training. I know that, of course. I just try not to think about it.

Spent the rest of the evening knitting “comforts” for the troops. Marjorie and Molly are knitting scarves. Molly’s is already as big as she is! My effort’s no better. It’s supposed to be a balaclava “helmet”. We’ve been told to leave only very small holes for the eyes. My holes seem to get bigger by the day and it’s all sort of bobbly. I feel sorry for the soldier who gets it. I don’t think he’ll find it very comforting.

At supper this evening Molly told me that Jean Mason has got herself transferred – to the Surgical ward. Molly said that she went up to Matron – Matron! – and actually asked for the transfer. I gaped at her. I’d never dare to be as bold as that.

“She thinks she needs the experience,” Molly added.

Poor Molly! She loathes her new job. Our MO’s handwriting is the worst, she said. And practically everything has to be typed in triplicate.

She says the MOs hardly ever say a word to her – even when Matron isn’t around to check up on them. Already she’s desperate to return to the wards.

There’s a stack of books on the box by Jean’s bed. I’d always assumed they were nursing manuals, but this evening I took a closer look at them. I hadn’t meant to be nosy, but I just couldn’t help it – the cover of the one on top had caught my eye. It wasn’t a nursing manual, it was a book on anatomy. Old, too. Well-thumbed. The sort of book a medical student would study – not a VAD. I knew I shouldn’t, but I had a quick peep inside. It looked very complicated. Why, I wondered, did Jean need to know all this stuff? And then I remembered what Molly had told me – about Jean asking Matron if she could transfer to the Surgical ward. I’d always thought there was a bit of a mystery about Jean Mason – and now I felt sure I was right.

There was a name on the book’s inside cover. Alastair Mason. The ink had faded so I knew that it must have been written a long time ago. Who was Alastair Mason? I wondered. Was he her father? Was he a doctor?

Suddenly I felt disgusted with myself. What did I think I was doing – prying into matters that weren’t anything to do with me? Already I’d found out more than I had any right to know.

Jean came in later and settled down on her bed. I watched as she leaned across and picked up one of the books off the box. Suddenly out it came: “Do you want to be a doctor?” Just like that.

Jean just looked at me. “Yes,” she said at last, quietly.

“That’s marvellous,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be a very good one,” I prattled on, without thinking what I was saying. Jean was silent. Her face looked even paler than usual. “It’s all right for
you
,” her eyes seemed to say.

I stopped. I felt bewildered.

“My father was a doctor,” she said abruptly. “I wanted to be one too – always did – but then he died and. . .” She stopped suddenly and looked away.

Slowly I began to piece it all together. All the little things that hadn’t made any sense. Like why she’d been upset about our pay and why she’s always so reluctant to take even a biscuit from me. She can’t share back. She’s poor. And worst of all, there wasn’t the money to pay for her training.

I felt so sorry for her. I leaned across and touched her hand. Jean smiled tiredly at me. “It’s all right,” she said.

It wasn’t.

Not everyone is as lucky as me. I can’t imagine what it must be like not to be able to do something you really want – just because there’s no money. Poor Jean. Sometimes life can be so unfair.

I smiled back at her. I’m going to make a real effort to be a friend to Jean – if she’ll let me.