by Lizzie Lane
It had all begun with her cutting her finger on a tobacco leaf, a visit to the medical unit to get a plaster, the very special visitors, and most of all him. He’d introduced himself as Lyndon O’Neill the third. From there on, the pace of their acquaintanceship had made her dizzy. At his request, she’d showed him round the city. He’d promised to see her again before he went back to the States, but he didn’t. He’d also promised to write to her, which he did, though nowadays it was far more intermittent than it had been.
‘I want to do a real job,’ he’d written. ‘Pa is fine about me joining him overseeing the plantation, learning all there is to learn. Ma is not so keen. She wants me to finish college, but I can’t. I’m bored. There’s so much happening in Europe and nothing much over here.’
Bridget had read and reread the letter until the corners were curling. She’d heard nothing since. Each morning, she awaited the arrival of the postman. A letter had to be due. It had been so long.
She forced herself to talk of the here and now. ‘I wonder if Phyllis has heard from Robert.’
‘We’ll soon find out. I’ll ask ’er.’
‘Don’t you dare. Just ask her how she’s feeling.’
Maisie glanced at her sideways. ‘Doing a lot of thinking, I shouldn’t wonder. I mean to say, she don’t need to stay with that creep if there’s no baby.’
Bridget’s face went blank. The same thought had occurred to her, but mentioning it seemed callous, and as for Maisie calling him a creep… usually she would reprimand her, but it was Maisie being her blunt self.
Both knew about Phyllis’s fleeting liaison with her typing teacher, who’d been the complete opposite of Robert. Phyllis’s head had most definitely been turned. She’d been starry-eyed about bettering herself, learning how to type and ended up totally smitten and very pregnant.
‘Well, let’s hope for the best,’ said Bridget in her soft, singsong voice of careful pronunciation.
‘She might not want ’im to come back. I wouldn’t blame ’er. Didn’t like ’im much at all. Shame she ’ad to marry ’im. As fer ’is mother—’
‘Maisie! What’s done is done and…’ It was no good. Bridget couldn’t think of how best to end the conversation; outspoken as ever, Maisie had hit the nail firmly on the head.
Nipping smartly off the tram, they found a spot out of the wind, though a fraction of it still found them.
‘Blimey, I can feel a right draught around my stocking tops,’ giggled Maisie.
Bridget giggled too. ‘Maisie, surely we don’t have to do this. It’s crazy!’
‘Anything goes! Come on. It’ll be fun.’
The veils flapped like swans about to take flight.
Maisie began to lose patience. ‘How the ’ell do these fix on?’
‘Like this,’ instructed Bridget. ‘They’re a bit like the veils the nuns wear, though shorter. It’s been pressed to form a triangle. Let the pointed bit trail down the back and grab hold of the two ends – then pin it like mad!’
After stuffing their coats into the carrier bags, heads down in case they were challenged, they charged up the steps into the King Edward the Seventh Memorial Building which formed part of Bristol Royal Infirmary.
A chalk board in the foyer listed the wards and patients’ names. Their eyes scanned the list and saw that Mrs Harvey was on the third floor.
‘Here goes,’ hissed Maisie and led the way, her little chin jutting forward, her step resolute and the brown paper carrier bag bumping against her leg.
The stone floors and bare walls echoed from many footsteps. Staff in a variety of different uniforms – including St John Ambulance, rushed around everywhere.
Despite Bridget’s misgivings, it seemed they were just two of very many, all brought in to help with the escalating crisis.
‘Can’t see any wounded soldiers ’ere,’ stated Maisie.
‘Over the other side,’ said a WVS lady pushing along an elderly lady in a wheelchair. ‘All the general cases have been moved over here.’
They grabbed the lift, an ancient affair with an inner and outer grille which took some strength to get open.
The lift made a clunking noise as it hit the right floor. Gripping the grille with both hands, they tugged it open and tumbled out.
With an air of knowing where she was going, Maisie led the way through busy people pushing wheelchairs or trolleys, bedpans or trays of cups and saucers.
Maisie slowed, glanced over her shoulder and nodded. They were outside Ward C.
Bridget perused the clock above the pair of double doors to the ward. It was five minutes to eight. Visiting time would be over soon.
‘We’ll have to ’ang around,’ said Maisie.
‘What if somebody asks us for a bedpan,’ hissed Bridget.
‘We’ll toss a penny if that ’appens,’ said Maisie. ‘Heads I do it, tails you do it.’
‘Great,’ muttered Bridget.
Though Bridget was scared to death, it was obvious Maisie was enjoying this.
They lingered round a trolley some way along the corridor, shifting the enamel receptacles that had been left on there from one side to another, as if it really served a useful purpose. For the most part, nobody gave them a glance; they were just two more nurses doing their bit.
The minute hand of the clock juddered as it measured the seconds and minutes. Finally, a bell sounded. Visiting hour was over.
‘Here goes,’ murmured Maisie.
The two girls exchanged nervous looks, before turning their backs on the door. They must allow all the visitors to leave before they went in. They looked like nurses and had to behave as such.
Again and again, the doors opened, some visitors pulling on gloves as they headed swiftly towards the stairs or the lift.
‘Oh no.’ Bridget took a deep breath and flattened herself to the wall.
‘Let that be a lesson to her,’ spat Hilda Harvey, her thick soles clomping off along the corridor. ‘And I don’t want her having any ideas about going back to work.’
‘Not to worry,’ Tom Harvey suggested, scurrying behind her like a Jack Russell, afraid of being left behind.
‘Not to worry? Not to worry?’ Her voice was as shrill as sharp fingernails scratching grooves in a glass pane. ‘It’s not her that has to worry. It’s me! My poor Robert. Who knows where he might be? And who’s there to worry about him and pluck up the courage to give him the grim news? Me! Just me!’
Maisie’s dark eyes met those of Bridget’s. ‘If I was Phyllis, I’d cut my losses and head for the hills. Get out of that bed in there, pack my bag and go anywhere else but back with that old cow.’
‘You mean join up?’
‘She could, couldn’t she?’
Bridget nodded. ‘She could indeed.’
Once the Harveys had disappeared, Bridget and Maisie breathed a sigh of relief, then, grasping their courage with both hands, they headed into the ward.
There were about ten beds on either side, each provided with a folding screen that could go all around the bed if need be. The lights had been turned down low, leaving one single bulb throwing a pool of light onto a desk in the middle of the ward. At present it was unoccupied. Bridget decided it was the domain of the ward sister.
A voice came from the other end of the ward. ‘Now just lie there whilst I take your blood pressure, Mrs Ferguson. Then I’ll give you these aspirin to help dull the pain. All right?’
Judging by the groaning and anguished entreaties to stay and hold her hand, Mrs Ferguson was far from all right. The ward sister remained behind the green-curtained privacy of the folding screen.
Maisie nudged Bridget. ‘Come on,’ she whispered.
Heart thudding against her ribcage, Bridget followed.
They slowed their steps, hardly breathing in case the ward sister left the patient’s bedside and came their way.
‘I need a bedpan,’ whined a pain driven voice.
‘Lie quietly, Mrs Ferguson. I’ll get you one right away.’
Shivering in her shoes, Bridget held back whilst Maisie went forward on tiptoe, scanning the lines of beds up ahead.
Not too far in, Maisie stopped, crooked her finger and jerked her head to where Phyllis, eyes closed and fists tightly clenched lay beneath a dark grey coverlet.
Light on her feet, Maisie was swiftly beside the bed.
Bridget followed.
In a trice Maisie had soundlessly wheeled the screens around the bed. ‘Phyllis?’
Suddenly aware she was not alone, Phyllis’s eyes flashed wide open. ‘You two! Whatever are you doing ’ere?’
Maisie pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh.’
Phyllis’s jaw dropped and her eyes were wide with surprise. ‘Since when did you become nurses?’
Maisie giggled. ‘Only relatives are allowed to visit, so your old mate Maisie put ’er thinking cap on. We came in disguise, thanks to Bridget’s mates in the medical unit at Wills helping us out with a couple of spare uniforms. Like the stockings?’ Grinning from ear to ear, she lifted her skirt and extended her leg high enough to expose the white flesh between stocking top and the leg of her knickers.
Phyllis expressed a weak smile and shook her head. ‘You’re a right one, Maisie Miles.’
Although shocked at Phyllis’s appearance, the self-satisfied look remained on Maisie’s face and she held back comments that might hurt. Phyllis looked a shadow of her old self. Her naturally pale skin was a sickly white and her red hair seemed to have lost its bounce. ‘So how are you?’ she asked in a hoarse whisper that she forced to sound cheerful.
‘You heard I lost the baby. It was a little girl. I named her Alice.’ Her voice was steady, but her eyes were sad. She gulped in an effort to collect herself.
‘We know,’ said Maisie and went on to explain about one of the women in the bread queue being related to Sally Grey. ‘We phoned to find out ‘ow you were and what ward you were in - relatives only they said. Saw the ‘arveys on their way out. She was givin’ the old man ’ell.’ Maisie grimaced.
Phyllis scowled. ‘I’m glad he came with ’er. He’s not a bad bloke at all. But ’er…!’ The dark scowl deepened. ‘That old cow blames me for losing the baby, as though I did it on purpose.’ Her eyes filled with tears and sobs choked whatever she’d been about to say. ‘All she’s worried about is how sad Robert’s going to be, never mind me.’
Maisie pulled a face. ‘Could be worse if ’e ever found out it weren’t his baby.’
A warning look from Bridget shut her up, though Phyllis appeared not to notice.
‘You’ve heard nothing from Robert?’ asked Bridget.
Phyllis shook her head and frowned. ‘Nothing at all. I shouldn’t think he’ll be back for the funeral and neither will I.’ She gulped. ‘The doctor said I’m to stay in for two weeks, so his mother’s taken charge. I suppose I can’t grumble, seeing as she’s going to pay for it all.’
All three fell to silence. Having anyone die was always difficult to cope with, doubly so when it concerned a baby.
Bridget handed Phyllis the chocolates and silk scarf bought with the whip round at work.
‘Hope you like it.’
Phyllis smiled, touched the soft fabric with her finger tips and told them to thank everyone.
The sound of footsteps preceded a loudly voiced question from roughly halfway down the ward. ‘What’s going on here? Who pulled those screens across?’
Within minutes, a portion of screen was pulled back.
The ward sister sighed.
Phyllis’s eyelashes fluttered as the sister efficiently but gently tucked in the bedding at one side.
‘That’s it, Mrs Harvey. You go back to sleep. Whoever drew the screen was right to do so. You need your rest. I’ll draw it back across so nobody can disturb you.’
The small rubber wheels squealed as she pulled the screen back round Phyllis’s bed. Once her privacy was regained, Phyllis’s eyes flashed open and Maisie and Bridget came out from beneath the bed.
‘’Phew,’ said Maisie, pulling the stiff linen headdress from her head. ‘That was close.’
Bridget was speechless. She kept asking herself why she had allowed Maisie to talk her into such a madcap scheme. What happened next made her glad that she had.
‘Bridget,’ whispered Phyllis. ‘There’s a bag in the bedside locker.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Take it. I won’t be having any babies for a long time.’
Bridget frowned. She couldn’t work out what was going on.
Phyllis jerked her chin and whispered, ‘Go on.’
Quietly, so the ward sister didn’t hear, Bridget did as asked, pausing before she opened it, waiting for a signal from Phyllis to go ahead.
Phyllis’s eyes met hers and Bridget slid the contents out onto the bed. They lay there, two flannelette nightdresses, one folded neatly on top of the other and Phyllis’s throat tightened at the sight of them. They were the ones she had bought on her way to the bakers. Just the sight of them brought tears to her eyes. She pushed them towards Bridget. ‘You take charge of them, Bridget, until one of us has need of them; you, me or even our Maisie.’
Even Maisie looked dumbstruck and her eyes too brimmed with tears.
Head bent, a single tear ran down Bridget’s face as she stroked the fabric, imagining a living baby Alice snuffling and asleep in its warmth.
‘We’ll have a coffee in Carwardines when I get out of here,’ whispered Phyllis, a suggestion met with tearful nods. ‘Can’t say when, but sometime…’
Without saying another word, it was taken for granted that it was time to go.
The pair of them leaned against the screen, pulled back a corner of material and peered out. The ticking of a clock somewhere passed like dripping water as they waited for the right moment. Eventually it came. The long-suffering Mrs Ferguson yet again demanded attention from the far end of the ward. There was no time to say or wave goodbye. They took their cue and ran on tiptoe, out through the doors and along the corridor to the lift. The only sound as they went down in the lift was of cables and metalwork clanging in sequence.
The ground-floor reception area had emptied of would-be visitors. A crowd of nurses wrapped in woollen cloaks were going off duty. Grabbing the opportunity to fit in, Maisie and Bridget tagged on behind.
Outside, they paused. It was still light and they once again found a secluded spot where they could change.
‘What will you do with the nightgowns?’ asked Maisie as they made their way to catch a tram.
At first, Bridget felt confused about how she should respond. She didn’t really want the nightgowns. ‘I doubt I’ll ever use them,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get wed.’
Maisie regarded her querulously. ‘I’ll put ’em in me case if you like.’
For a moment, Bridget regarded the ground thoughtfully. ‘No. I’ll take care of them..’
‘Until one of us needs them,’ murmured Maisie.
‘Yes,’ returned Bridget. ‘Until one of us needs them.’
6
Maisie
Dear Maisie,
I was over the moon when I read your letter and wish I was with you living in that pub, or at least having a drink at the bar.
Thinking of you a lot and how you’d laugh to see me in shorts and frying an egg on a piece of old tin. No fire needed! It’s that hot.
Don’t know when I’ll get some leave but hope it won’t be too long. The eighth army couldn’t do without me!
Anyway, can’t wait until the day comes when I see you again. Hope you and your mates are keeping safe.
Please wait for me.
Love, Sid.
Maisie smiled and felt quite pleased that she’d written to Sid and told him about her new circumstances. The letter had taken a while to get
there and his response had taken a seemingly shorter time to get back. As though he’d been waiting for her to write, she thought, and that was nice.
Funny how his cheeky grin was still implanted in her mind and she still recalled his saucy comments and his attempt to put his arm round her when they’d gone to the pictures together following them meeting in the queue outside.
‘You all right to ’elp out tonight then,’ asked Aggie.
‘Yeah,’ said Maisie, folding the letter and sliding it into her pocket.
‘Got no young man to meet up with, then?’
‘No need to. Got one already in me pocket,’ said Maisie and laughed at her own joke.
Friday night in the Llandoger Trow was always busy, the bar full of men thirsting for a drink after a long week at work, sailors and dock labourers smelling of salt, plus a sprinkling of women, some sitting whilst their men drank, others eyeing up men that looked free and out for some fun – at a price of course.
One after another, tankards were filled, the dimpled glass turning from clear to a rich and yeasty brown.
‘Busy night,’ said Maisie, nodding to the sea of demanding faces all trying to get the attention of those serving.
There was an art to pulling a pint and Aggie had taught her well. The first few pints she’d found easy to pull, but her left arm had ached like mad by the end of the evening. Now, her muscles having built up, she didn’t have that problem, but joked, chatted and took the money.
‘I’ll ’ave the arms of a navvy with all this pint pulling,’ Maisie murmured to herself.
Aggie heard her. ‘In time you’ll ’ave arms like mine.’
‘You’ve got bloody big ears,’ Maisie said to her.
‘Matches me gob,’ returned Aggie.
Maisie laughed.
‘Two pints ’ere, love.’
Two empty glasses were refilled. In the process of handing over the customer’s change, the wide, lopsided door of the bar was opened. A gush of warm evening air still touched by lingering sunlight filtered in, diffusing the acrid human smells of working clothes, sweat and strong beer. Maisie was vaguely aware of a tall, rangy figure, broad shoulders thrusting against dark clothes, the peak of his cap pulled low over his eyes. Like a lot of young men, he headed straight for the youngest and prettiest barmaid, which of course happened to be Maisie.
