by Ellie Dean
The tortuous minutes dragged by and there were cries of anguish from the onlookers, and the sound of weeping filled the silence as more and more shrouded bodies were brought out and identified. The line of the dead now stretched along the pavement.
Julie glanced at each one, fearing the worst, but keeping that tiny spark of hope alive, praying that her parents hadn’t been down there at all – that Ivy had been mistaken, that they’d . . .
She stared down at the strange, misshapen mound beneath the two blankets on the stretcher as the men carefully placed it next to the others.
‘Best not to be looking under there, love,’ one of the men said wearily. ‘They was crushed, you see, crushed together like Siamese twins. It ain’t a pretty sight.’
Julie’s fragile hope died as the entwined hands slipped from beneath the blankets. She recognised the thin gold band and garnet engagement ring on her mother’s finger, and the shirtsleeve above the watch her dad had been given by the Water Board in recognition of his forty years of service. Bert and Flo Harris had died in each other’s arms, as united in death as they had been throughout their married life.
‘No,’ she keened. ‘Please, no.’ Julie sank to her knees, took the tightly clasped hands and held them to her heart. Sorrow and despair engulfed her as she kissed the hands that had cared for her so lovingly, her tears washing away the grime of their tomb as she held them to her cheek and rocked back and forth.
She’d lost all sense of time and was unaware of everything going on around her as she knelt there on the rough road she’d once played on as a child and tried to accept that her parents had left her, that she would never see them again, never hear their voices or feel the security and love they’d so generously given.
‘Come, Julie,’ said a soft voice at her shoulder. ‘The ambulance is waiting.’
Startled, she looked up through her tears in bewilderment. ‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ she managed.
‘It’s not for you, Julie,’ the priest replied softly.
She didn’t understand, but was unable to speak as his hands slipped under her arms, firmly drawing her to her feet. Her numbed legs threatened to buckle and she collapsed against him. Grasping his stained and dusty soutane, she felt his arms go round her and she leaned into him, desperate for a moment of comfort, longing to feel the solidity and warmth of another human being in this coldest, darkest hour.
But that brief moment of solace almost broke her – for these were not her father’s arms, nor her mother’s or sister’s. They were gone, out of reach, never to hold her again. And the knowledge that she’d lost everyone she loved hit her like a hammer blow.
She clung to him, the agony of her terrible loss too great even for tears.
He held her, murmuring soft words meant to comfort her, but all they did was remind her of when her parents had soothed her childhood fears and tended her scraped knees.
Julie finally drew back from the priest and looked up into his kind brown eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
His smile was soft and full of understanding. ‘Can you walk, d’you think?’
She nodded. ‘I certainly don’t need an ambulance,’ she replied, her voice rough with emotion.
‘They are here now to take these poor souls to the local undertaker,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll be able to see them again tomorrow in the chapel of rest.’
Her head felt as if it was full of cotton wool, her thoughts sluggish and jumbled. She frowned. ‘Tomorrow? But I have to be on duty tomorrow,’ she muttered. ‘And I must make arrangements for Franny.’ She began to tremble again, the tears threatening.
The priest asked no questions but simply picked up her medical bag and carefully steered her across the rubble to where her bike lay. ‘It’s probably best you come back with me,’ he murmured, setting it back on its wheels and securing her bag on the rack. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock, and the ladies from the Women’s Voluntary Service will give you a cup of hot sweet tea.’
She let him wheel the bike and lead her away as the ambulance clanged its bell and set off down the street towards the undertakers at the back of Ensign Street. ‘I didn’t tell them about Franny,’ she stuttered, ‘or about the baby.’
‘Have no fear, Julie. They are with our loving Father who sees and knows all things.’
Julie gave a harsh cough of derision as he helped her up the church hall steps. She was grateful for his help and knew he was only trying to comfort her, but his loving Father had ignored her prayers – had turned His back on her and, in a matter of a few short hours, had taken away her home and everyone she loved.
The priest made no comment as he found her a space to sit on the small stage and then hurried off to get her a cup of tea.
Julie sat on the edge of the stage and stared out at the mass of miserable and injured humanity who’d come here for solace and a kind word in their hour of great need, perhaps finding comfort in faith and prayer. In her agony of bewilderment and pain, she couldn’t believe there was a God, for where the hell had He been when they’d all needed Him most?
She felt restored by that jagged knife of anger, more able to cope. She looked up at the priest as he returned with a mug of tea. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it from him and wrapping her cold fingers round it. ‘I’ll drink this and get out of your way.’
‘You don’t—’
‘Yes, I do, Father,’ she interrupted. ‘I have to get back to the hospital.’
‘Are you sure, Julie?’ He frowned, his brown eyes looking down at her with such concern that it almost broke her resolve.
She looked away from him as she finished the tea. ‘I have responsibilities,’ she muttered. ‘See to your flock, Father, and I’ll take care of me own.’ She knew she was being ungracious, but that couldn’t be helped. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d break down again and never have the strength to do what she knew she must.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Julie made it back to Shoreditch, and although she was almost asleep on her feet, and faint with hunger, she didn’t go straight to the hostel.
The Mothers’ Laying-in Hospital was quiet and warm, the smell of disinfectant and starch comforting after the chaos and devastation of Stepney. Julie caught sight of her reflection in the glass entrance doors but didn’t care that she looked a fright – that her hair and face were begrimed and tear-streaked, or that her stockings were in shreds and her coat grey with dust. She was concerned only for William.
Ignoring the disapproving and startled glances of those she passed, she hurried up to the baby ward. Pushing through the swing doors, she stood for a moment in bewilderment, unable to remember which was William’s cot.
‘You look all in,’ said the nurse tactfully as she took in Julie’s grubby appearance. ‘Have you been out with the ambulance crews to the bomb sites?’
Julie didn’t want to go into long explanations, so merely nodded in reply.
The nurse gently steered her out of the ward. ‘I’ll show you where you can wash,’ she said kindly. ‘We can’t risk infection – not in there.’
Julie suddenly realised how thoughtless she’d been and, with a muttered apology, followed her into the sluice. The nurse handed her a bar of soap and a clean towel and quietly closed the door behind her to give her some privacy.
Julie took off her coat, cap and apron, careful not to get too much dust on the pristine floor as she folded them into the big brown paper bag she always carried with her medical instruments. Having stripped off the ruined stockings, she threw them in the waste bin. There was nothing she could do about the grubby, blood-stained dress, so she filled the sink with hot water and began scrubbing her face, neck and hands.
Once she felt clean again, she stuck her head under the tap and used the carbolic soap to wash the dust and grime from her hair. Feeling marginally better, she rubbed her hair vigorously with the towel, thankful it was short and would dry quickly.
She took a deep breath, suppressing another tidal wave of s
adness and exhaustion, and forced her weary legs to carry her back to the baby ward. She gave a wan smile to the nurse who was now sitting on a low chair, bottle-feeding a baby. ‘Where’s William?’ she asked.
‘We’ve transferred him from the oxygen tent, and he’s now in the cot at the far end.’ The nurse eyed her thoughtfully. ‘You look about done for,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Julie replied, already on her way to William’s cot. He was crying, his little face red, his tiny fists waving above the blanket in fury.
‘You can change and feed him if you like,’ said the nurse. ‘The nappies are in that cupboard and the bottles are all made up in the kitchen over there. They only need warming.’
In a stupor of grief and weariness, Julie changed his sodden nappy, and then went to warm the milk in the tiny, spotless kitchen that led off the ward. The young nursing aide handed her a cup of tea, and she gulped it down gratefully. It was weak and almost tasteless, with only a hint of sugar, but it helped revive her spirits enough to keep going.
William had stopped crying by the time she returned to the ward, and she took him from his cot and held him close. He didn’t weigh much, but his tiny body was comforting and warm in her arms – a reminder that life carried on regardless of the horrors surrounding them. She breathed in his baby smell, her cheek resting lightly on his downy head as she sank into the low chair and settled down to feed him.
She watched his fingers flex and curl in delight, noted how his eyelashes were dark against his pale skin, and how greedily he sucked at the teat. His vulnerability and total reliance on her touched something within Julie, and she knew in that moment she would do everything in her power to protect him. For now all they had was each other.
As Julie left the hospital and wheeled her bicycle over the road to the hostel, the air was rent with the sound of Hurricanes and Spitfires heading for the coast. She took little notice of them, for she was pondering on the miracle of a love so strong it was an irrepressible force. She’d seen that love in the poorest of hovels when a baby was placed in a mother’s arms for the first time – had witnessed it in acts of incredible bravery when a child was at risk, and in the unceasing, selfless care that a mother gave to her ailing little ones.
William was not her baby, but in the short while she’d held him, fed him and watched him fall asleep, she’d felt that love sweep through her. It was fierce and overwhelming; stronger than anything she could have imagined. But it was healing, too, for in caring for William, she’d found a fragile solace.
The kitchen was deserted, but there was a plate of food keeping warm on the range and Julie tucked into it, hoping it wasn’t meant for someone else. The gravy had dried, the edges of the corned beef hash were crisp, and the cabbage leaves were brown and curled, but in her ravenous hunger she didn’t care. There was a portion of apple pie left in the larder and she soon demolished it, washing her meal down with another cup of tea. Sitting back in the chair, she felt partially restored, the need for sleep not quite as urgent.
The clock on the wall ticked heavily in the silence and Julie was astounded to see that it was after five. Matron might have given her the day off, but she’d had a full case-list today. She just hoped they hadn’t been let down.
Matron came bustling into the kitchen just as Julie was rinsing her plates. ‘I gave your list to Nurse Preston,’ she said without preamble, ‘so you can be sure that all your patients have been well looked after in your absence.’
‘I’ll remember to make it up to her,’ murmured a grateful and much relieved Julie. Poor Polly Preston had a big enough round as it was without shouldering Julie’s as well, and she just hoped she hadn’t run Lily too ragged during the day.
Matron reached for the kettle that always stood by the range and glanced disapprovingly at Julie’s filthy dress and bare legs. ‘I suggest you have a bath and go to bed. You can continue your duties in the morning when you’re feeling more refreshed.’
‘Thank you, Matron,’ Julie said quietly, ‘but I’ll need some time off to make arrangements for the funerals.’ She saw the older woman raise her brow in question and went on to explain about her parents.
‘Of course,’ Matron replied when Julie came to a stuttering halt. She gave her a soft, kindly smile. ‘You’ve rather been through the mill, haven’t you? Take time off until the funeral and then, if you feel able to cope, you can pick up your duties again.’
‘Thank you, Matron,’ she murmured, touched by this usually stern woman’s kindness.
‘I’ve already spoken to the Church Adoption Society,’ continued Matron as she made another pot of tea and set out a tray with a cup, saucer and two digestive biscuits. ‘The paperwork should all be through by the time your sister’s baby is ready to leave hospital.’
Julie stared at her, aghast. ‘William doesn’t need adopting,’ she said hastily. ‘He has me, and when his father comes home—’
‘I don’t think you’ve considered your position,’ said Matron, her expression not quite as kindly as before. ‘You’re not married and can’t possibly raise a child on your own. Think of the scandal it would cause. And you certainly couldn’t continue with your work and stay here. We have no nursery facilities.’
The cold reality of her situation slowly began to dawn on Julie. ‘But I promised Franny I’d look after him,’ she replied, her voice sharp-edged with growing concern. ‘She specifically told me she didn’t want him raised by strangers.’
‘He could be fostered out, I suppose, but with so many families—’
‘No,’ Julie interrupted. ‘He stays with me until Bill can get home.’
Matron’s lips formed a thin line, and her eyes hardened. She clearly didn’t appreciate Julie’s tone. ‘And what if this Bill doesn’t come home? He and your sister weren’t married – he might not want the responsibility.’
That had never occurred to Julie and she hesitated before replying. ‘He loved Franny, and she trusted him. He won’t turn his back on his son.’
‘Let us hope your faith in him is justified,’ said Matron. ‘But that does not solve the problem of who will look after the child until he returns.’ She gave a deep sigh and stared out of the window to where Horace was lethargically hoeing the vegetable plot. ‘Bringing up a child takes every ounce of your energy and requires full-time attention,’ she continued softly. ‘That is why mothers don’t go out to work unless they absolutely have to.’
She looked back at Julie. ‘You’re very young, Sister Harris, and although you’re highly qualified as a midwife, you have no experience of the sheer effort and commitment it takes to raise a child. It would be impossible for you to care for William and fulfil your duties as a nurse without a family to support and guide you.’ She eyed her sternly. ‘I assume this Bill has a family – give the baby to them.’
Julie reddened and couldn’t look Matron in the eye. ‘They live in Yorkshire,’ she murmured, ‘and although Franny wrote to them about the baby, she never received a reply. I don’t think—’
‘I suspected that might be the case,’ said Matron with a sigh. ‘It’s always very difficult for families to accept a child born out of wedlock – even if it is purported to be their son’s.’
Julie didn’t like the inference that Franny’s baby might not have been Bill’s, but she kept silent, not wishing to antagonise the woman further.
Matron stood deep in thought for a long moment. ‘Do you have any other family who might help you?’
‘There’s me older sister, Eileen,’ Julie said doubtfully. ‘But she moved down to Cliffehaven on the south coast years ago and we’ve lost touch.’
‘Then I suggest you try and reach her. She could be your only hope.’
Julie doubted it very much. Eileen had made it pretty clear she wanted nothing to do with the family once she’d left. There had been no letters, no visits, not even a passed-on message, and Julie had no idea of whether she was married or not
– or even still in Cliffehaven. ‘I’ll write to her and tell her what’s happened,’ Julie murmured. ‘But it’s an old address, and she might have moved on.’
Matron took a deep breath, her expression stern. ‘Let us hope she is willing to take on the child,’ she said, ‘because if she isn’t, and you decide to go ahead with this foolish plan to raise him yourself, you will have to resign.’
Julie’s heart was hammering, her thoughts in a whirl. ‘William won’t be out of hospital for a few weeks yet,’ she said in a rush, ‘and I’ll need time to try and make proper arrangements for us both. May I stay until then?’
‘Of course,’ Matron replied. ‘We are short-staffed and your work here is invaluable. Perhaps those few weeks will give you time to rethink this wild plan of yours and help you to see that fostering, or adoption, is really the only answer.’
Julie watched her leave the kitchen with her tea tray. Her back was ramrod straight, her head erect, each step purposeful and unhurried. Matron Starkey’s advice was valid, her common sense practical and wise, but Julie could not – would not – break her promise to Franny.
And yet, keeping William posed a legion of problems which hadn’t occurred to her in that rush of grief and love. Now, in the cold reality of Matron’s concise assessment of the situation, they appeared to be insurmountable.
Chapter Five
JULIE HADN’T THOUGHT she would sleep after that conversation with Matron, but once she’d bathed and climbed into bed she knew nothing more until the lights were switched on at six the next morning.
‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ murmured Lily. She perched on Julie’s bed in her brother’s striped pyjamas, which swamped her tiny frame. ‘Matron told us all what ’appened, so there’s no need to go through it all again,’ she said softly. ‘How’re you feeling?’
