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

by Shirley Dickson

  May declined to look at the newspaper her friend had brought and so Etty read out:

  A Spitfire on a training flight from Lancashire is believed to have had engine failure and crashed in the grounds of the town’s Edgemoor Hospital. The pilot was killed. No damage was done apart from windows broken in two wards and Maternity unit. The only injured was brave nurse May Robinson who endangered herself in order to save her patient.

  Etty folded the newspaper and looked unsure. ‘It goes on to explain what you did.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Aren’t you proud? You should be.’

  ‘I didn’t think at the time… It’s what any nurse would do.’

  ‘All the same, it was you that saved that mother from serious injury,’ Etty protested, ‘and look where it got you. Talk about hitting a person when they’re down.’ She made a fist to the heavens.

  May couldn’t smile because it hurt her wound and she was afraid the stitches might burst.

  ‘I admit seeing the plane flying towards us was terrifying. I swear I saw the pilot’s face. Poor lad…’

  She turned her mind away from the tragedy. She hadn’t slept. She’d thought about Richard all night long – how if that plane hadn’t crashed where it had she might have joined him.

  May met her friend’s gaze. ‘My face is disfigured.’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘When they changed the dressing.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  May took a deep breath and tried to stay brave. ‘A three-inch gash from the edge of my eye to my cheek.’

  Etty leaned back and surveyed the bandage around May’s face and head as if she was viewing a painting. May knew she’d get the absolute truth from her friend.

  Etty shook her head. ‘I imagine the wound looks grim what with the stitches and all, but won’t it fade in time?’

  ‘It’s a deep slash, raised on both sides and a row of black ugly stitches.’

  She could feel the tightness in her throat but she refused to cry. She braced herself. May had seen many burnt and disfigured faces and she was ashamed at how she’d comforted soldiers by telling them what mattered to their loved ones was that they were alive and that it was the person inside that counted. She realised now these platitudes didn’t help. Nothing helped. She knew that injuries could change a person’s life. Even Etty couldn’t disguise the pity on her face as she listened to May’s description of her injury.

  ‘To be fair, you could have lost an eye, or the baby. Just count yourself lucky you’ve escaped with only a facial injury,’ Etty remarked helpfully. ‘Won’t it look loads better once the scar’s healed and the stitches are gone?’

  May thought of those boys with half their faces blown away.

  ‘I suppose I could grow me hair long and have it hang over the—’

  At that moment the door opened and Sister walked in.

  ‘A Mr and Mrs Bentley have arrived and wish to visit.’

  May’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Is that—?’ Etty began.

  ‘Yes. Richard’s mam and dad.’

  ‘Do you wish to see them, Nurse?’

  May didn’t know. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Patients are only allowed two visitors,’ Sister told Etty pointedly.

  Etty stood. ‘I’ll go. You’ll want to see them alone.’ She collected her things and made for the door.

  Following Sister from the room, she turned and made big eyes at May. ‘Let me know what happens.’

  * * *

  When they came into the room, Mr and Mrs Bentley were nothing like May expected. She remembered them from the photograph she’d seen at Richard’s place. Distinguished-looking, they’d seemed to have the look of superiority of those who never listen to another person’s point of view and who consider themselves always right. Yet, here Richard’s parents were, an ordinary, grey-haired, ageing couple.

  Mr Bentley, who in the photo had been tall with a ramrod-straight back, was now bent at the shoulders and walked with a stick. His wife was painfully thin with what May could only describe as a panicky, uncertain look.

  ‘It’s good of you to see us.’ Mrs Bentley moved towards May and handed over a bunch of flowers wrapped in newspaper. ‘From the garden,’ she said.

  The atmosphere was awkward. May nodded to two chairs. ‘Please, sit down. Sorry I’m not dressed but—’

  ‘Please don’t apologise,’ Mrs Bentley told her. ‘You look perfectly decent in your dressing gown.’

  Mrs Bentley sat in the nearest chair while her husband stood next to her.

  Mr Bentley gazed in fascination at the bandage around May’s head. His wife stared in horror.

  If this was the reaction May was to expect, how much worse would things get when folk could see her scar? She thought of those brave boys who had lost limbs. She drew herself up and stared at Richard’s parents with determined eyes.

  ‘We came because we felt it important you should know. We’ve received a telegram.’ Mrs Bentley’s face had a ghastly pallor and tears were swimming in her eyes. ‘Prepare yourself for a shock, my dear.’

  How many times had May heard those very same words spoken on the ward?

  ‘I know. Richard is dead,’ May told her woodenly.

  ‘How did you know?

  May told her about the letter in Richard’s battledress pocket.

  Mrs Bentley nodded. ‘Whoever found Richard must have taken that letter and posted it.’ Tears brimming in her eyes, she continued, ‘Richard’s superior officer sent us a letter describing the nature of our son’s death and how brave he’d been. The officer said a photo and letter from a sweetheart were found in Richard’s battledress pocket. And I presumed the photograph was of you. He loved you so very much.’

  May’s emotions were all over the place. She didn’t trust herself to answer and quickly changed the subject.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘We saw the article about you in the Gazette…’ Mrs Bentley began, then looked at her husband. When he didn’t respond, she went on, ‘Before he left, Richard came to see us and told us all about you, where you worked… and about the baby.’

  ‘He wrote and told me he had,’ May replied.

  She remembered how Richard had described them being resentful and making it clear that him being a medical orderly didn’t fit the bill. Her lenient heart hardened.

  Mrs Bentley went on, ‘Unfortunately, we didn’t arrange…’

  ‘There’s nothing unfortunate about it. Your son came to see you to make up before he went to war. To tell you his future plans. He wanted to be a family and you—’

  ‘Now, now, young lady.’ Mr Bentley’s cultured voice held an air of authority. ‘You don’t know the circumstances of—’

  ‘Oh, but I do. Richard explained about him and his brother. He didn’t say but I could tell he felt he wasn’t good enough for you.’ She saw Mrs Bentley’s face crumple. She didn’t wish to cause any further heartache. She told them, ‘Your son was the kindest, most considerate man I’ve ever met. He stood by his convictions, no matter what cost to himself.’

  She drew a quivering breath. ‘Now he’s dead and he’ll never see his baby or watch it grow and… and…’ Her voice squeaky, she finished, ‘I loved him so.’ She burst into tears.

  Mr Bentley looked astonished, as if he didn’t know what to say. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out an immaculately folded white handkerchief.

  May wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I think it best if you go.’

  Mrs Bentley’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘On no… please hear me out.’

  ‘Sarah… we can do no good here,’ her husband said. His bushy eyebrows were raised as if he’d had a fright.

  ‘Terence, for once let me say my piece. Our son is dead and I for one am ashamed of how we behaved towards him…’ Overcome, Mrs Bentley took a minute to collect herself, then faced May. ‘Both our sons were brought up to compete, to be the best in every venture they undertook. I’
m guilty of allowing this to happen.’

  She gave her husband a hard look. ‘Jeffrey felt it was his duty to sign up, to prove he was a man when he was still just a boy. He didn’t question, but did as he was taught and paid the ultimate price.’

  She heaved a long sigh. ‘Richard was the sensitive one, the thinker, though he wanted to please like most children do. But in a household where duty rules and you have to obey without question, it was difficult for him. I see that now. Against all our wishes, he followed his beliefs.’ She looked up at her husband. ‘And I for one am proud of him and only wish I could turn back the clock and tell him so.’

  Though May felt for this woman who hadn’t had the courage to stand up to her husband for her children’s sake, she didn’t react. Her loyalty was to Richard – because he’d suffered so. But she also knew he’d have the grace to forgive his parents and would be eager to start anew.

  Sarah Bentley gave her husband, who stood apparently unmoved, a stony stare.

  ‘I’m so glad Richard met you, and you made his last months so special and wonderful… which were— ’

  ‘His words,’ her husband finished for her. His chin wobbled. ‘And for the record, he would have made a much better father than me.’

  His face softened, losing its granite expression, as he searched for words. And May saw Richard in his father.

  ‘You remind me of him,’ May told him.

  As if this was too much to bear, Mr Bentley appeared to sag. ‘I was more soldier than a father,’ he admitted, his voice hoarse. ‘Ahem! But no excuses. I loved both my sons… in my own way.’ He visibly gathered himself. ‘Look here, this helps no one.’ He turned to May. ‘What my wife and I would like, if you would be willing, is to be part of our future grandchild’s life.’

  ‘We wouldn’t interfere,’ Sarah Bentley put in quickly. ‘Just to see the child would be enough…’

  * * *

  Later, when the Bentleys had left, May laid her head back against the chair, her emotions in turmoil.

  Richard’s parents had ruined his life. But had they? He was happy despite them and because of his circumstance he’d left home and found his way to her. How could she stay mad at them when all he’d wanted was to make up? Besides, Richard’s bairn deserved to know its grandparents. Her mind made up, May could picture Richard’s smile of joy and contentment.

  As she daydreamed about him, grief returned to overwhelm her – but May took solace from the fact that she’d made the right decision.

  31

  Screens were pulled around his bed.

  ‘Today’s the day,’ he heard Mr Percy, the eye specialist, say in his booming voice.

  After days lying on his back with his head seemingly in a vice, he felt woozy sitting up.

  ‘Scissors, please, Nurse.’ Mr Percy sounded as though he was concentrating hard. ‘Don’t be disappointed, Mr… erm… if you don’t see anything straight away… that can happen sometimes.’

  The last of the bandages were taken off and Richard’s stomach turned as if he were on a ship on a choppy sea.

  ‘I can see light,’ he exclaimed.

  He soon realised that that was all he could see. Everything was blurry, as though gauze was over his eyes.

  ‘I did explain that you’d need further surgery.’ Mr Percy’s voice had a placating tone.

  The screens were taken away and, left alone, he sank back against the pillow. He was glad he wasn’t allowed to get up yet as his ribs still hurt like blazes and his whole body felt as though it had been run over by a bus.

  He searched his brain as the thought triggered something in his mind, a vague memory… He was sure he’d heard the phrase ‘run over by a bus’ before. But where refused to surface in his mind.

  ‘Damn it,’ he cried as he strived to remember.

  ‘Aye, mate, sorry it didn’t go your way,’ the fellow in the next bed called.

  Richard gave a wave of the hand.

  Footsteps came to his bed and then he heard a tray being set down on his bed top table.

  ‘Milky drink,’ a nurse with a mature voice told him. There was a rattle of cup on saucer.

  ‘I thought I had a memory then I lost it.’

  There was a pause. ‘You’re still recovering… give yourself time.’

  ‘How long d’you think it will take?’

  ‘Recovery or memory?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘You’ll be here for a time then sent to convalesce.’ Her tone was professional. ‘Ships are delivering large numbers of casualties and beds throughout hospitals are stowed out.’

  A new thought came to disturb him. ‘Where will I go after I’ve convalesced?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that now. Think positively. You may have regained your memory by then.’

  ‘What if I haven’t?’ He wanted to take his frustration out on someone. But he calmed himself, as he knew none of this was the nurse’s fault. She was doing her job to the best of her ability. ‘Wherever I belong they’ll probably think I’m dead by now.’

  ‘Remember what the specialist told you?’ He heard a hint of sympathy in her voice. ‘Your memory could return at any time, today, next month…’

  ‘In a few years’ time,’ he finished cynically. ‘Why didn’t that shell just finish me off?’

  ‘Mr Shell Blast… that’s no way to talk. The good Lord spared you for a reason and feeling sorry for yourself won’t help you get better. You should be ashamed.’

  Her footsteps stomped off.

  He felt mortified; the nurse was right. And he vowed he would never give in to self-pity again.

  ‘That’s you told, Mr Shell Blast.’ A male voice, with a laugh in it, came from across the ward.

  He saw the funny side. ‘That must be the nickname the staff have given me. I bet the nurse doesn’t realise she’s spoken it aloud.’

  ‘The nurses have gorra have a sense of humour after all they’ve got to deal with.’

  Something stirred in his memory but wouldn’t emerge as proper thought. ‘Where d’you come from?’

  ‘Why, man, I’m a Geordie from Newcastle… can yi’ not tell?’

  He wanted to know why the accent was so familiar… perhaps it was a clue to where he came from.

  There was a kerfuffle from the other side of the ward.

  ‘Ger-off,’ the Geordie man shouted.

  ‘What’s all this?’ The nurse with the mature voice was back, her tone stern.

  ‘I’m not havin’ nee conchie shavin’ us, and that’s final.’

  For some reason the comment riled him. ‘Give the man a chance,’ he cried.

  In the resentful silence, he wondered why he cared so much.

  Late July 1944

  The bell rang as May entered the funeral parlour. Mechanically, she pulled her long chestnut-brown curls over her cheekbone to hide the healed and unsightly scar, a habit she’d acquired to avoid the pitying glances she received.

  It was still early morning, and Mr Newman (she hadn’t been invited to call him uncle) looked up from his desk where he was doing accounts. He frowned at the bag she carried.

  A month had passed since May had left the hospital. She sorely missed the structure and routine, and especially the patients, but her bump had grown and she knew it would be too embarrassing to be on the ward, even if she had been allowed.

  She’d moved in with the Newmans in an upstairs bedroom that overlooked the red brick backyard. Derek was in the small bedroom at the front of the house and it was like old times seeing him every day. May was delighted that Derek wanted more of her attention, particularly when he came home from school when he was eager to share what he’d been doing all day – especially sport, which was his favourite activity. For though the Newmans were kind, they liked him to be academically inclined and this put pressure on the laddie. He could relax when he was with May.

  He accepted the scar with the curiosity of the young and asked her a barrage of questions. How had they taken the stitches out? Did
they really use a needle? And what a shame she hadn’t kept any of them.

  Only once did he mention the bump. ‘Is your baby going to live with us?’

  ‘Why? Do you want it to?’

  ‘Albert at school, his mam’s just had a baby and he’s a big brother now.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  He nodded. ‘Only if it’s a boy, though.’

  May laughed and ruffled his blonde hair. ‘That I cannot guarantee, laddie.’

  * * *

  Now, as she passed Mr Newman’s desk, he turned a page in the account book.

  Then, sitting back, he took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  He eyed the bag she carried. ‘Should you be carrying such a load in your condition?’

  May had been out to the corner shop to fetch the rations. ‘There’s not many heavy things in the bag, just potatoes.’

  May couldn’t wait till Derek arrived home from school this afternoon, as she’d brought him her ration of sweets – two ounces of sherbet lemons, his favourite sweeties. The ration for sweets used to be sixteen ounces a month but now, with the shortages, the allowance was reduced to eight ounces.

  ‘Very well.’ Mr Newman replaced his spectacles and resumed bookkeeping.

  May climbed the stairs.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Ramona stood on the landing, an open newspaper in her hand. Dressed in a light blue summer frock with a white collar and buttons all the way up the front, Ramona had finished with wearing black.

  ‘The man’s mad.’

  May glanced at the article in question. She saw a picture of a V-I flying bomb that the Luftwaffe were terrifying Londoners with.

  ‘Apparently, Hitler,’ Ramona went on, ‘sees this as a vengeance weapon. Stupid fella. Does he not know he’s on a losin’ battle? Churchill himself said we’ll defend our island whatever the cost.’ Her voice wobbled.

  Poor soul, May thought, and Ramona’s cost was losing her only son.

  May had read all about the bomb that looked like a small aeroplane and the strange rasping noise it made when it was in flight.