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Our Last Goodbye: An absolutely gripping and emotional World War 2 historical novel

Page 11

by Shirley Dickson


  ‘I’ve just had one.’

  ‘We’ll meet up after work one night.’

  ‘Alec, I can’t. I’ve got a mountain of work to catch up with.’

  ‘Saturday’s Christmas Day,’ he told her. ‘I’m off work. How about we meet up then?’

  Christmas was her next day off, and May had no one to spend it with. Her intention was to do some studying. But, on second thoughts, all she’d do was spend the day thinking what ifs, about Dad, Derek, Etty and the bairns – Norma in particular, as she’d grown fond of the little girl. At the realisation that all ties with her were now cut, a pang of sadness overcame May. She’d known the bairn since the day she was born.

  Over these last few days May had explored how she felt about Norma being Billy’s. But she’d discovered that it hadn’t changed how she felt about her. May smiled as an image of Norma played in her mind’s eye. She couldn’t help her parentage.

  May shivered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Alec’s features creased in concern.

  ‘Tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Get yourself in the warm,’ he commanded. ‘We’ll meet at half one on Christmas Day. I’ll have had a kip by then and dinner with Nana.’

  Alec was companionable and it was nice to have someone to go places with but May had to be honest. ‘Alec… I have to tell you. I really like your company but that’s as far as I want to go because—’

  ‘For now,’ he said, then backtracked. ‘It’s just a date, not a proposal. I’ll settle for enjoying each other’s company and see how things go.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ll meet at the Chi roundabout.’ He hesitated, then, with a brief nod, he strode away, and the night swallowed him up.

  * * *

  May was in school for the following two days. On the third day, back on the ward, wary of Sister Jordan and her pernickety ways, May thought it best to keep busy in the treatment room.

  The consultant surgeon, Mr Leonard, was doing his round on the ward, his entourage following him and Sister Jordan hovering at his heels. The great man wasn’t interested in mere mortals like May, and so it was best she kept out of the way.

  As Mr Leonard deigned to stand at the patient’s bedside, even the most outspoken of them were struck dumb. May was dumbfounded how Mr Leonard could conduct his consultations without ever once speaking to a patient or meeting their eye.

  As she hid in the treatment room, Sister’s words played in May’s mind. ‘A nurse is never seen to be idle.’ Even if she couldn’t see May, Sister would check up on her later.

  May opened cupboard doors, checking glass treatment bottles ranged from the smallest to tallest at the back. She swabbed trays with cotton wool dipped in surgical spirit, the strong vapours up her nostrils making her cough. As she worked, her mind drifted to the letter she’d received in the post yesterday from Mrs Talbot.

  She’d reported that while Derek was, of course, grieving his mam, she made sure he had plenty to keep him occupied. And May could be assured that if he cried at night, which was a rarity now, she was at hand to comfort him. Mrs Talbot suggested that perhaps the time wasn’t yet right for May to visit as it might be a reminder of his mam and only upset him. She then went on to report details of Derek’s days – he was doing well at school and helped around the farm – and his life, May decided, sounded idyllic.

  A picture of Derek being comforted in Maud Talbot’s arms played in May’s mind and, like the sharp blade of a knife, jealousy sliced through her. But she couldn’t compete with what the Talbots had to offer. Ashamed of her jealousy, May reminded herself that with all the death and destruction in today’s world, she should be grateful that Derek was safe and happy.

  ‘Nurse Robinson.’

  May started as Sister Jordan appeared in the treatment room doorway. ‘You’re not paid to daydream.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister.’

  ‘The consultant has finished his round. Mr Oliver in bed five didn’t have his bed bath this morning… Mr Leonard arrived early and there wasn’t time. Help Nurse Reeves do it now.’

  ‘Very well, Sister.’

  May liked doing bed baths, when the patients visually relaxed and became talkative. She found washing the patients’ skin with cloth and soapy water therapeutic, especially the old men who, once they were washed, teeth cleaned and hair combed, looked clean and well cared for.

  May made to hurry off.

  Sister bristled. ‘Which reminds me, Nurse. Was that you I saw from the office window running across hospital grounds this morning?’

  Blast! May had dawdled over breakfast and had had to run the last few yards to make it to the ward on time.

  ‘Yes, Sister. I—’

  ‘No excuses, Nurse. You know the rules. A nurse is never seen to run except in the case of fire or haemorrhage.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Report to my office when you’ve done.’ She turned and marched off along the corridor.

  After the bustle of the morning and with dinner over, the ward had a somnolent atmosphere. Patients lounged on their beds, snoozing or smoking. One soldier, bound around the chest with bandages, held a cigarette to another’s mouth as both his arms were in plaster casts. The fitter men played cards, dominos or a game of chess in the dayroom.

  Casualties of all nationalities were admitted to Edgemoor Hospital as the town was a reception centre for wounded servicemen. Soldiers were respectful towards nurses but were wont to have a joke amongst themselves to help keep up spirits. No harm was meant.

  As May washed Mr Oliver’s chest, she heard a witty remark to his emaciated-looking and subdued neighbour in the next bed who had a cage over his stump. ‘Aye, Tommy, both of us are short of a limb but if we stick together, there’s hope for us riding a bicycle yet.’

  May was about to shush the man in question, but refrained as she saw the reaction of the soldier he addressed. The man hadn’t uttered a word since his operation, but now his gaunt, white face twisted in a wry grin. Progress indeed.

  Having finished the bed bath, the basin of warm water emptied in the sluice, towels, soap, methylated sprit and talcum powder put away, May made her way to Sister’s office. Nervously, she smoothed the skirt of her uniform dress before she knocked on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  Sister sat behind her desk, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She folded a sheet of paper and slipped it in into a brown manila envelope. As May waited in the spartan, meticulously clean room, she wondered what punishment she’d receive for running in hospital grounds.

  Sister Jordan, as the porter had said, was indeed a hard taskmaster, but asked nothing of her nurses she wouldn’t do herself, and beneath the stern exterior beat a compassionate heart. As far as Sister was concerned, in terms of fraternising with the patients, it was a case of do as I say and not what I do. May, on more than one occasion, had noticed Sister having a private, encouraging word with a patient. Neither did Sister shirk her role as educator, teaching her nurses – May included – all she knew.

  Sister’s lips drew into a thin line. ‘I’ve sent for you, Nurse, as I’ve noticed there are times when you appear distant and deep in thought. Home Sister tells me that she finds the same. No doubt there is a reason’ – she held up her hand – ‘but I do not wish to hear it.’ Sister sat back in her chair. ‘We all have problems, Nurse Robinson, but we must learn to leave them at the ward entrance door. Our patients must always come first. Is that clear, Nurse?’

  ‘It is, Sister.’

  ‘It takes time and money to train a nurse and it does the profession no good for them to give up halfway through training.’

  ‘I would never, Sister.’

  ‘Good. You may go, Nurse.’’

  As May made for the door, Sister returned to the papers on the desk.

  ‘And, Nurse…’

  May turned.

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  Sister Jordan looked up and took off her spectacles. ‘I say this because you have the m
akings of an excellent nurse. Make sure you don’t jeopardise your future. I’ve seen it happen before.’

  ‘Very well, Sister.’

  May left the room.

  She vowed to study every spare minute God gave and pass those dratted class exams.

  * * *

  The next day, May worked the morning shift. After dinner and a few hours studying in her room, she returned to Nightingale Ward at five o’clock ready to learn, as she’d never worked the evening shift.

  But the shift proved the same routine. Supper over, dirty dishes and cutlery collected, the trolley gone, lockers wiped, bottle round done, bedridden patients turned, the ward held an expectant atmosphere as patients waited for visiting time to begin.

  As a vague smell of minced beef lingered on the ward after the meal, May made for the laundry cupboard where she tidied the few clean pillowslips and counterpanes on the slatted shelves. Strange, she thought, there were hardly any clean sheets and it would appear no laundry had been delivered today.

  Blast! She hoped she wouldn’t be sent to borrow laundry from another ward – the staff were never keen.

  ‘So, this is where you’re hiding.’ Staff Nurse, a young woman with an affable smile appeared in the laundry doorway. ‘I need notes collecting for one of the patients from Casualty.’

  ‘I’ll go at once, Staff Nurse.’

  The night was chilly, so May fetched her cape from the staff room and, as she headed for the door, the coarse material made her skin itch.

  Outside, a pale moon sailed across a landscape of cloudless sky and as she set off for the hospital’s main building, a dark structure in the distance, a pang of loneliness washed over May. Life wasn’t the same without Etty. In her mind’s eye, she saw the letter she’d received yesterday, lying on the bedside locker top. She knew the letter was from Etty as she recognised her large swirling handwriting – the same as on the couple of others she’d received since she came to Parklands. She’d opened none of them because in truth, May was afraid she’d weaken. The hurt she felt was still raw. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive Etty. In May’s book friends were like family and there could be no deception or secrets between them.

  She reached Outpatients’ doorway that led to Casualty and she was just about to open the door when someone inside did it for her.

  ‘Watch out,’ she cried, as she collided with someone wheeling a trolley.

  Subdued torchlight shone on the ground. A face peered at her. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ a deep male voice said.

  She recognised the voice as that of Richard, the porter she’d met before.

  ‘Man! Don’t you know there’s a war on!’ came a vexed shout, making May jump. ‘Put that light out.’

  The porter switched the torch off.

  Archie, the Air Raid Precautions Warden, doing his rounds, huffed up to them.

  ‘Sorry,’ they said simultaneously.

  May reprimanded herself. She shouldn’t apologise for something she hadn’t done.

  ‘You should have more sense.’ A musty smell of damp wool emanated from the ARP warden. ‘I know we haven’t had a raid for some time but that’s no excuse. Man, you can’t be too careful. What if Jerry has his eye out for South Shields hospital the night?’

  Then he was gone into the black night, for the moon had found a cloud to hide behind.

  ‘Who’d have thought the man had a sense of humour.’ The porter’s voice was measured.

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘It’s not a case of me liking him.’ The finality of his tone suggested the subject was closed.

  May imagined his lovely brown eyes staring into the darkness. She’d met him a few times throughout the hospital, wheeling a trolley with a stretcher on it, or a patient in a wheelchair. His eyes forever watchful, a glint of recognition shone in them as the two of them passed one another in a corridor. But any conversation between staff was discouraged by Matron.

  But here they were now, in the dark and alone.

  ‘How are you getting on in the ward?’ he surprised her by asking. Though his voice was hesitant, as if he expected a rebuff.

  ‘As you said, Sister Jordan is a stickler for discipline. But everything she does is for patients’ benefit, which is fair enough by me.’

  ‘The woman has always treated me right,’ was his cryptic reply.

  ‘I was terrified that first day.’

  ‘I could tell.’ She heard a smile in his voice. ‘You’ve got an expressive face and it showed. I knew nothing I could say would help.’

  May could listen forever to his soft, well-spoken voice.

  ‘Thanks. Mr…’

  ‘Bentley… Richard Bentley. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ His voice sounded sincere.

  ‘And you. I’m Nurse Robinson.’ Immediately she felt daft at being so formal. ‘May Robinson,’ she corrected.

  May knew she should get back but Richard’s laidback, yet intent, manner encouraged her to stay. She liked talking to him.

  ‘On that first day I was convinced I’d get chucked out… that I’d be useless as a nurse.’

  ‘Never say that.’ Sternness crept into his tone. ‘You’re as good as the next. All nurses are angels for the hours they put in and the work they do.’

  A rather embarrassed silence followed when neither of them knew what to say next.

  As the moon came out from behind the clouds again, she saw his outline, his chiselled features and the strength of his jaw.

  May wondered about him, why he worked as a hospital porter when most men served in the forces. She shouldn’t judge, she remonstrated. Maybe he had bad eyesight or had suffered psychological problems and was unfit to be sent back to duty. She knew from experience that this kind of thing happened in battle as the same had happened to soldiers on the ward. To ask, though, would be too intrusive.

  Richard made to push the trolley away but May, curious about the large bag she could make out on the trolley, asked, ‘Is that bag of laundry I can see for men’s orthopaedic? Because I don’t believe we’ve had a delivery today.’

  ‘Yep, it’s for Nightingale. It got overlooked this morning.’

  ‘Good. We need sheets for bed-making tomorrow.’

  She’d become her formal nurse self again. May was amazed how easily she’d acquired this new side to her personality. ‘I must get on, Mr Bentley.’

  She pushed Outpatients’ door open and went inside.

  ‘It’s Richard,’ he called after her.

  * * *

  May collected the patient’s notes from Casualty. Returning to the ward, she pushed the inner doors open. Nightingale Ward was filled with visitors (the rule was no more than two to each bed) and had a heightened busyness about it. ‘A commotion of jabbering noise,’ as Sister was apt to call it. Prone to a mother-hen attitude at visiting time, Sister’s eyes scrutinised each patient in turn through the nurses’ station that overlooked the ward. She checked if any patient looked discomfited. Especially soldiers who’d fought on the front and, though physically healing, were still suffering after what they’d witnessed. Many of them were waiting to be transferred to a mental hospital for voluntary treatment. Distraught and exhausted relatives thought jollying their loved ones along was all the poor boys needed.

  Sister gestured to May.

  May joined her in the station and Sister checked her watch. ‘Five minutes to go, Nurse, then you can ring the bell. Best to collect the eggs now… make sure they’ve got names on them.’

  Lots of relatives brought a precious egg for their loved ones and at breakfast many a dispute was caused if an egg wasn’t identified by a pencilled name written on its shell.

  Just about to reply, May noticed Sister’s eyes sharpen. May followed her gaze.

  Richard Bentley was walking onto the ward, and, making his way down towards the second bed where a wheelchair stood, he grasped the handles. He said something to Corporal Jennings, lying in the bed against pillows positioned in an armchair fashion. The Corporal, wh
o was due to go to the plaster room, looked up at Richard and nodded. A visitor, a large fellow with ruddy face sitting in a wooden chair next to the Corporal’s bed, stood up suddenly, pushed his belligerent-looking face up to Richard’s, and made a remark.

  Sister Jordan shot like a bullet out of the office. May, paces behind, was in time to hear the man say, ‘Fella. I won’t tell yi’ again. Get yer cowardly self away from me son’s bed… else yer for it. Bloody conchie.’

  May, not sure whether to be more shocked that Richard was a conscientious objector or outraged at Corporal Jennings’s dad’s behaviour, stopped in her tracks – but not Sister Jordan. Twin spots of red on her cheeks, she stood between the two men.

  ‘Mr Jennings, isn’t it?’ Her voice was conciliatory. ‘I would thank you to consider where you are. This is a hospital ward filled with the sick.’

  As the visitors looked on, silence encompassed the ward.

  The man bristled. ‘And I’d like you to consider’ – he glared at Sister Jordan – ‘me son ’ere nigh lost a limb fightin’ for his country, while this filthy, no-good conchie—’

  ‘Da, don’t. You’re showing yourself up.’ Corporal Jennings, too ill to cope, appeared pale and distressed.

  Murmurings circled the ward, the tone suggesting many were in agreement with what Mr Jennings had said.

  Sister turned to Richard and gave a surreptitious nod for him to leave. He hesitated, and then with a shrug pushed the wheelchair and walked stiffly up the ward.

  ‘Aye… go on, run away – that’s all yer good for… Cowardly sod.’

  ‘Mr Jennings, I’ll thank you to leave or else I’ll—’

  Whatever Sister would do remained a mystery as, at that moment, the chilling wail of the air raid siren sounded.

  11

  At the sound of the siren, adrenalin pumped through May’s veins, making her edgy. She remembered the pamphlet about air raid procedure explaining that some patients, for medical reasons, couldn’t be moved to the shelter in hospital grounds. Steel helmets and gas masks were to be provided and bedridden patients were to be covered with blankets to protect them from falling debris.

 

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