by Jana Petken
The building she had worked in had been destroyed in the bombing, but the council had been quick to put the operation into another warehouse that was closer to Minnie’s house but farther away from the hospital. Danny hadn’t had time to trek up and down to Shooters Hill, except on Sunday mornings.
Realising that he hadn’t answered Minnie’s question yet, he eventually said, “Just don’t let her think you’re lying to her. The less said about John, and how she looks, the better. And while we’re at this, will you please stop your skulduggery with those letters of Kevin’s?”
Minnie took her nose out of the newspaper. When she was reading the news, she usually paid only fleeting attention to conversations going on around her. Danny watched her tiny watery blue eyes take on that determined Don’t you dare criticise me look and cringed. She was just about to give him a telling-off, but he was not going to bite his tongue, not this time.
“Get off your high horse, Daniel,” Minnie said, right on cue. “We’re trying to help her. Kevin might be her only hope of a decent life now. Who else do you think will be interested in her, eh?”
“It doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re both being dishonest. How do you think Kevin will feel when he finds out that you two are writing to him? I can’t even understand why you should want to read his letters when they’re for Jenny. They’re private, for God’s sake. Then, if that’s not bad enough, you sit here discussing the intimacies in them as if they were yours. It’s a rotten trick to play on Jenny. How many letters have you written to him – five, six?”
Susan said indignantly, “Only four.”
“That’s four too many. Kevin’s probably sitting in a trench thinking Jenny’s interested in him and looking forward to having a lovey-dovey reunion, when the reality is that she has not even agreed to read the letter he left with Patrick before he was deployed. And what happens if she does decide to read that note, and then, God forbid, she replies to him? Kevin’s going to wonder what the hell’s going on if she tells him to bugger off!”
“Don’t you dare raise your voice or curse in this house!” Minnie shouted back.
Danny paused for breath. He was ready to tell them a few home truths, but if he opened his mouth now, he wouldn’t stop at his disapproval regarding Kevin and Jenny. He’d go headlong into a blazing row about what they were doing to him!
“I apologise for my manners, Minnie,” he said.
Susan said in a panicked voice. “You had better not say a word to Jenny about this. I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
“I won’t. I want no part in this, but mark my words, your dishonesty will catch up with you, and when it does, she will never trust the pair of you again.”
Minnie tutted and went back to her newspaper. Danny gazed at the dancing flames, trying to stop his anger from boiling over by thinking about Anna. Susan left the room, nose stuck in the air, as though she were walking through a crowded room of factory workers. He loved her, but he wondered if she’d ever had a realistic or sensible bone in her body.
A while later, Susan coldly nudged Danny awake. “Dinner will be ready in a minute or two. Take Jenny’s up to her, please.”
Danny nodded. “What are we having to eat tonight? I’m starving.”
“Bread, corned beef, and pickled onions. That shop on Lindhurst Street always seems to be out of everything nowadays. Nothing’s been the same around here since the Germans blew up our corner shop.”
Minnie added, “George Egan was killed. He’d worked behind the counter of that old corner shop since he was a boy. He was a childhood friend of your mother’s. I don’t think he ever left Greenwich – did he, Susan?”
“No. God bless his soul, he had an unimaginative life, and then he was blown up by Zeppelins.”
“The Germans have taken a lot of good lives,” Minnie said sadly.
Danny uttered, “And we’ve taken plenty of theirs.”
Lifting up the paper, Minnie then said, “There is some good news today.”
“What is it?”
“There’s been a big British victory near Cambrai. They pierced about five miles of the Hindenburg Line.”
“Good for them,” Danny said half-heartedly, more concerned about the measly excuse of a dinner on offer than about where the Hindenburg Line was or what the English army was doing.
The council had finally attended to Minnie’s house, just in time for Jenny’s homecoming. There had been a lot of indecisiveness about what to do with the homes in Minnie’s street after the air raid. Those that had been damaged beyond repair were quickly demolished, but others, like Minnie’s, were structurally sound and required only a small injection of money to put things right. That option, the council unanimously agreed, was far better than relocating residents.
The front wall of the parlour room had been repaired, as had the part of the roof directly above it. Shattered, the bay window had been fitted with new glass, along with the panel on the top half of the front door. Minnie and Susan were overjoyed. The ugly wooden boards on the windows, which had caused cold drafts, perpetual dirt, and a heavy darkness that had engulfed the room for months, had disappeared.
The bedroom had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. The bed, moved to the wall facing the window, gave Jenny a view of a rooftop on the other side of the street and just a glimpse of sky above it. It was better than what she’d had in the ward. There, a plain white curtain, other beds, and the women lying in them had been her only outlook.
Sitting with her back against fluffed-up pillows, she felt reasonably comfortable. She was in pain most of the time; it was only after she had been injected with morphine that she could cope with the hellish life that had been thrown at her. At first, she had slept after each prick of the needle, but now, even with its potent effects, she did not fall into unconsciousness but instead felt only mildly relaxed. She wouldn’t be able to cope without the drug. She craved it morning, noon, and night. Her head still burned. It felt as though a thousand needles were pricking it, and it throbbed so badly at times that she could hardly open her eyes.
Heavy blankets weighed her down, but she was warm and felt comforted by the soft woollen materials. It was snowing outside and growing dark, but she could still see the odd white speck hitting the bedroom window. Oh, how she longed to take a walk and feel the pain and pleasure of freezing cold air on her face. It was such a simple desire, yet all pleasures that she had once taken for granted now seemed so impossibly far from reality.
Her eyes drifted away from the window and flicked to every corner of the bedroom. There had been changes made. The walls, recently papered, were cheery, with bright green leaves and pink flowers embossed on a cream background. The bulky oak dresser that had sat against the same wall for years had disappeared, and in its place was a hospital trolley that Dr Thackery had loaned to Mam. On its top shelf sat an array of glass bottles filled with oils and herbal potions. Their pungent smells, now permanently ensconced in her skin’s pores, still made her feel sick. On the bottom shelf, clean rags for washing her body were neatly folded next to a tin basin, soap, and chamber pot. Cotton wool, syringes, and a journal, in which Mam kept her treatment records, completed the ensemble of items, which served to remind her and everyone else in the house that she was an invalid.
She had asked her mother to take the bedroom mirror off the wall. Perverse curiosity demanded that she face her grotesqueness head-on. In fact, that morning the urge to look at her itchy eye had almost overpowered her, until the fear of seeing something that might be unbearable to live with quashed her vanity.
In the hospital the doctors and nurses had been very careful not to allow mirrors, handheld or otherwise, anywhere near her. The other women in the ward, most of whom had not suffered traumatic injuries, had also been warned to keep anything made of glass away from her vicinity. She had thought that maybe she would accidentally see herself reflected in a door or window as she was leaving the hospital, but thankfully, minutes before her departure, they bandaged her
head, part of her face, and arm.
Looking down at her uncovered left hand and arm, she studied the scars. They gave her some idea of what her head, ear, and eye must look like. She had once tentatively touched the side of her head, behind her burnt ear, even though she knew that putting her hands anywhere near her skin was strictly forbidden. The first picture that had come to mind was that of a rotting black cabbage that had been halved, rough with ridges and indents. She had not touched it again since then, nor had she been able to get that image out of her mind.
Reaching out, she picked up an envelope from the nightstand. It bore Kevin’s writing on the front, with his military address on the back. Every time she held it in her hand, she had a wistful moment, but then reality crept in like a thief.
After putting the letter back, she went over her reasons as to why she could never read it. They were the same grounds that she’d given her mam and Minnie every time they came to see her. John, so madly in love with her and so desperate to become her husband, had practically vomited at the sight of her. She’d never forget the moment his mouth gaped open and his eyes opened up like giant saucers. And his words would stay with her until the day she died: “Oh, Jenny, what a mess you are, darlin’. And to think you were once so pretty.” She couldn’t recall whether she had responded or not. That day had been a blur, like a misty dream, without clarity, continuing for weeks, until she was no longer sure if she was awake or sleeping.
Lying in bed for months had forced her to delve deep into her past relationship with John. She had plenty of reasons to hate him, but on reflection, she couldn’t find any, and that bothered her. She’d pictured every kiss, conversation, and gesture that had passed between them in the previous three years. She had relived every dinner party, dance, picnic, and finally the engagement ball itself, with her dancing in his arms.
Confronting every memory in an effort to understand her feelings had been painful, but the blatant truth was, not only did she not despise him for what he did, but she couldn’t even say she was sorry that he’d left her. Admitting that her shallow feelings had been a sham also meant having to admit that Patrick and Kevin had seen right through her. She had been desperate to marry a wealthy man and leave her mother’s apron strings, and John had wanted to become the son-in-law of a highly respected and somewhat famous surgeon. And the most dishonest part about it all was that their union might even have been successful, had she not been disfigured.
She looked at the envelope again and sighed regretfully. Kevin, dearest Kevin, was never going to see her like this. He would always remember her the way she was before the Zeppelin came. He was not going to have an opportunity to belittle her with his piteous tears, in eyes full of thinly concealed repugnance, or be secretly ashamed to be seen in public with her. John’s reaction had been enlightening. Her appearance obviously disgusted men, and even after the burns had healed and scarred over, she would still be a monstrous sight. There really was no point in reading Kevin’s letter, no matter how much she may wish to. She was doing him a great favour, and one day he’d thank her for it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Compared to the Titanic, the rescue of the Britannic was facilitated by three factors: The temperature was higher, at 21 °C compared to −2 °C for the Titanic; help had arrived less than two hours after the first distress call, instead of the three-and-a-half-hour wait suffered by the Titanic survivors; and thirty-five lifeboats had been launched and had stayed afloat, whereas the Titanic had only twenty lifeboats available.
On Patrick’s boat, men discussed the possibility of rowing towards land. The Britannic’s lifeboats were scattered all around the site of the sinking, as were the many men who were still in the water, having been unable to climb into the crowded boats. Some of the sailors suggested that the closest island was approximately five miles from their position and that it was a manageable distance to row. It would be painstakingly slow, another sailor added, because the boat was carrying seventy-six occupants and they would most certainly head into a stiff wind and high swell. Others thought it best to remain where they were and wait for help. But the main concern among the men was the possibility of them meeting a German ship, should they sail off into unknown waters.
The only officer on board, Patrick listened to the arguments for and against leaving the area, but it only took him a couple of minutes to come to the conclusion that it was neither ethical nor morally correct to leave survivors in the water without a lifeboat and its occupants’ assistance on hand.
Just before ten in the morning, the first rescuers arrived at the scene. The Greek fishermen on their caique picked up as many men as they could, in water that was becoming more turbulent as the morning wore on. Only minutes before, Patrick had realised that the situation was deteriorating. Some of the swimmers no longer kicked with their legs or pushed the water with their arms. Instead, they floated languorously on their backs, with their heads at times whipping backwards into and then under the water. The men were succumbing to exhaustion or their injuries, and a few poor sods floating face down in the water had already been taken by the sea.
Patrick acknowledged that he’d been lucky to get off the ship when he had. He recalled that in those last moments aboard, every member of his family had flashed before his eyes. He was probably being daft, but he could swear he saw his father standing right next to him with a mischievous grin and brightly shining eyes, daring him to jump.
Whitelock came to mind. Where was he? Patrick squinted in the brightness and scanned the water and other boats close by. The petty officer had been standing by the railings in those last few seconds. He’d given the almighty shove that had sent him, Patrick, tumbling over the edge. He was alive because of Whitelock.
For a while, he watched the men being hauled like fish onto the Greek vessel, until his attention was drawn to the cheering coming from some of the boats behind his. Turning, he felt his heart pound with relief. The two Royal Navy ships steaming towards his position blew their horns. They were still some distance away, but their royal ensigns were clearly visible. As they grew nearer, he made out figures of sailors on deck waving their hats in the air, looking like white specks of snow darting back and forth.
“Thank God!” a man on the lifeboat cried. “I’m going to live to see my children again.”
“And I’ll be marrying my Sadie as soon as I get home,” another informed the men.
Patrick grinned from ear to ear. The crew clapped and whistled. One man began singing: “Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rules the waves!” It seemed a strange anthem to sing, Patrick thought, considering that the Britannic had just been sunk by the Germans. Then, to his surprise, he felt pride surge through him. It was indeed a great moment to be British.
On his arrival on Korrisia, a port community of the island of Kea, Patrick began work immediately. Surviving doctors and nurses, already there, had set up their operating room on a barren quayside, and in their desperate attempts to save the injured men, they were utilising aprons and pieces of lifebelts to make dressings. Not everyone had come ashore yet. The swell was growing, and waves were lashing the shoreline, making it difficult for ships to come in. Patrick was still thinking about Whitelock. Upon his arrival, he had asked the other doctors and nurses to inform him the moment his petty officer turned up, but he’d heard nothing yet.
Hampering the medical personnel’s efforts was the lack of disinfectant to cleanse wounds and morphine to alleviate pain. Patrick rushed over to a crowd of Greek civilians who had turned up to watch the goings-on. He thought they looked moved by the suffering of the wounded, and he also believed that they were in a position to help. After an awkward few minutes trying to make himself understood, he managed to persuade a couple of men to fetch some bottles of brandy and bread, and to his surprise, they offered to host many of the men in their houses until rescue ships arrived in the small port.
Patrick treated a seriously wounded man. His name was Harry Bennett. He lay motionless in an RAMC uniform with
a row of ribbons on his breast, his eyes half closed and his lips slightly parted. A piece of his thigh was gone, and one foot was missing. Patrick stared for a second or two at the grey-green hue of the aging face and then took his hand. Bennett opened his eyes wide and gazed up at Patrick. “I’m dying,” he said, matter-of-factly.
He was probably right, Patrick thought, yet despite silently agreeing, he shook his head. “You’re doing no such thing. You have a fine physique for a man of your age, and I’ll put my money on your having a good few years left in you. Anyway, I’m not going to let you die today,” he assured him.
With that, Bennett gave Patrick a beautiful smile and closed his eyes just as the horn of HMS Foxhound blasted as it anchored in the port.
Later that afternoon, Patrick boarded the light cruiser HMS Foresight along with the wounded, doctors, and nurses. It was decided that the injured, no matter how seriously hurt, had a better chance of survival on board than on the jetty or in a house without any medical equipment. Stretchers and blankets were used to carry those who couldn’t walk the short distance between the jetty and the ship. Harry Bennett, the elderly man, was still alive and surprisingly seemed to be rallying, but Patrick found that even that miracle was not enough to raise his ailing spirits.
Standing on the top deck, he gave a sombre salute to Whitelock, who was being brought on board in a crude wooden box, having died earlier of his injuries. He’d been floating beside a few other men in the water, held above the waterline for at least forty-five minutes. Patrick had been informed by one of the survivors that Whitelock was semi-conscious for a while, but blood had gushed out of a deep stomach gash and sent him into a coma. “He just stopped breathing,” the sailor said sadly.
