Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

Mariette felt chastened. She wanted to say that he had misjudged her, but she knew he hadn’t. Back then, she really had been the person he was talking about.

  ‘Maybe I was that shallow then,’ she agreed. ‘But the war has knocked that out of me. Uncle Noah, his wife and daughter died in the bombing of the Café de Paris. We were there to celebrate my twenty-first. I only survived because I was in the Ladies when the bomb dropped.’

  His eyes softened. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not asking for sympathy,’ she said. ‘I just need to explain why I’m not that way any more. Right after the funeral, Aunt Lisette’s son made me leave their house. So I went to Whitechapel to stay with a friend – not a good place to see out the Blitz, but I was happy there. Do you remember telling me I should go to see the East End?’

  Morgan nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll be glad to know that I came to understand what you meant. I never did find a man to take me dancing at the Ritz, and with this knee I doubt I’ll be dancing anywhere again.’

  There was a perceptible change in Morgan’s body language. His shoulders relaxed and when he turned back towards her, his expression was one of understanding.

  ‘I saw on your notes that you had a bullet in your knee. How did that happen?’

  ‘It’s a long story, and I’m not really allowed to tell it,’ she sighed. ‘But if you want to know about me, as much as I want to know all that’s happened to you, come and visit me when you aren’t busy. Looks like I’m going to be here for a while.’

  He hesitated.

  She felt he wanted to, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

  ‘Come on, Morgan!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing bad can happen just talking.’

  He smiled then. ‘No, of course it can’t. Are you likely to have visitors this evening?’

  ‘No, the only person who knows I’m here is my landlady. I think she’s coming this afternoon.’

  ‘Then I’ll pop back when my shift ends. I must go now, there are people to move around,’ he said as he began to push the trolley out through the door.

  A few minutes later, Staff Nurse Jones came in to check the dressing on her leg. Mariette had only spoken to this plain, buxom nurse for a few moments on the previous day, but she’d found her to be warm and chatty. She seemed a good person to ask about Morgan.

  ‘I met Morgan Griffiths, the porter, when he was a steward on the ship on which I came over from New Zealand,’ she said companionably. ‘He remembered me, but I think he was embarrassed because of his scar. Can you tell me anything about him?’

  ‘Only that he is a kind and dedicated man,’ Nurse Jones said. ‘Officially he’s a porter, but he’s almost qualified as an SRN too. He knows as much about nursing as the most senior of us. I can’t count the times he’s helped us out in an emergency. Some say he should be a doctor, he reads up about everything.’

  Mariette felt a glow at hearing such praise for him, and delight that he’d learned to read. ‘He used to look like Errol Flynn,’ she said. ‘He was so handsome, you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘When you spend a little time in his company, you find yourself thinking he’s still like that,’ the nurse said, and laughed lightly. ‘He has such a way with people, you just don’t notice his scar. Of course, it’s a great deal better now than it was; he’s had a few operations since then. He’s never going to have film-star looks again, but I think the woman who manages to capture his heart will be very lucky.’

  ‘Hasn’t he got anyone then?’

  ‘No, the silly man doesn’t socialize. I think he spends all his spare time with his nose in a book.’

  ‘I suppose when you’ve been very handsome, and suddenly you lose those looks, you are likely to want to hide yourself away,’ Mariette said.

  ‘Yes, just as you are likely to cover this leg up,’ the nurse said, looking away from the bullet wound she was cleaning to the many other scars on Mariette’s leg. ‘Looks like this isn’t the first time you’ve been in the wars?’

  ‘I was in a shelter when it got a direct hit and a beam fell across my legs,’ Mariette said, looking objectively at her badly scarred legs. She’d grown used to them, and rarely gave them any thought, but the new livid wound in her knee, surrounded by inflamed skin, made the old scars look much worse. She had to admit that, along with being very painful, her leg looked hideous.

  ‘Poor you,’ the nurse said.

  ‘I was the lucky one, I managed to wriggle out of the rubble. Only two other people were saved. Not being able to wear shorts, or have bare legs, is a small price to pay for your life.’

  ‘So how did you get a German bullet in your knee? Everyone wants to know,’ the nurse asked with a conspiratorial grin.

  ‘Running away from a German in France,’ Mariette grinned back. ‘Well, actually, getting into a rowing boat to get away.’

  ‘The Resistance?’ The nurse’s eyebrows lifted.

  ‘I’m not allowed to give any details, sorry,’ Mariette said. ‘So tell me about you? Do you come from Southampton? How long have you been nursing?’

  ‘Well, that tells me all I need to know,’ the nurse laughed. ‘A reluctant heroine!’

  31

  Sybil arrived to see Mariette mid-afternoon carrying a large bouquet of hothouse roses which must have cost her a fortune. She dropped the flowers on the bed and enveloped Mariette in a tearful hug.

  When she eventually let her go, her eyes were puffy. ‘I spoke to your mum in New Zealand,’ she said. ‘I’m going to ring them again tonight to tell them how you are. Your mum sounded as if she wanted to jump on the next boat here, and your dad was standing by asking questions. Of course, I had nothing much to tell them. Only that you had a bad knee.’ She paused to look at the cage holding the blankets off Mariette’s knee. ‘How bad is it?’

  Mariette tried to smile. But it was hard, because her knee was hurting a great deal. ‘I’ve got to have another operation, it’s pretty badly smashed. Let’s say I won’t ever win a “Lovely Legs” competition. But I made it out of France with the kids.’

  ‘You were rescuing children?’

  Mariette put her hand over her mouth. ‘I wasn’t supposed to say that, so forget it. This secret stuff just isn’t me, and I’m really glad I’m out of it now. My nerves would never have coped with another mission.’

  ‘No one could be happier about that than me,’ Sybil said. ‘Except, perhaps, your mum. She, of course, couldn’t understand what you were doing in France, or even why you were doing anything other than serving drinks in the pub. Edwin is trying to get down to see you. I had twenty questions from him on the telephone, he sounded quite cross really. I said, “You should be very proud of her,” but all he could say was that you should’ve told him what you were doing.’

  Mariette sighed deeply. ‘He, of all people, should understand why I couldn’t say anything.’

  ‘I know, but it must have been a shock to hear that someone you love, and who you thought was at home, safe and sound, has been shot in France.’

  ‘You know, Sybil, I really don’t think Edwin is for me,’ Mariette admitted wearily. ‘He needs someone his family will approve of, some quiet, well-behaved young lady who won’t ever give him a moment’s anxiety.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Sybil said. ‘He adores you just the way you are.’

  ‘He might have done, at first, but I think that’s worn off, and he’s too much of a gentleman to admit it. But then, I don’t know that I even want a gentleman like him. I want a man like my father, strong, noble and capable, who doesn’t give a fig about what anyone thinks of him.’

  ‘You’re being a bit mean about him,’ Sybil reproached her. ‘He’s a fighter pilot, the bravest of the brave. He’s a gentleman because that’s the way he was brought up. If you were my daughter, I’d want you to marry him.’

  Mariette picked up Sybil’s hand and squeezed it between both of hers. ‘You are a great stand-in mother,’ she said with affection. ‘But I think m
y real one would say there has to be passion to make a marriage work. She also wouldn’t like the fact that his parents don’t think I’m good enough for him.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Sybil said with some indignation.

  ‘I do, that’s why he’s never taken me home. And this little escapade won’t make things any better. They’ll think I’m wayward, too spirited, a bit dangerous, which, perhaps, I am. And maybe I need a man who likes that about me.’

  Mariette’s leg was throbbing now, and it was making her feel quite odd. But she didn’t say anything, just carried on talking to Sybil, moving on after a while to tell her about meeting Morgan again. She admitted they’d had a torrid romance on the ship coming over here. As she went on to explain that he’d been badly scarred, Sybil looked very anxious.

  ‘It sounds as if you want to start it all up again with him,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Mariette admitted. ‘I was a silly, empty-headed girl when I met him, and he was a handsome but uneducated ship’s steward. The war has changed us both. But there was something about seeing him again, rather like opening a book again that you hadn’t finished reading, and finding it’s really good. So maybe!’

  ‘Oh, Mariette,’ Sybil scoffed. ‘Life isn’t like that. He’s been a recluse because of his scar, and he’s probably got a huge chip on his shoulder. And as for you! Well, you are clutching at straws. As soon as you are well enough to travel, I’m taking you home to nurse you there. OK, so maybe Edwin isn’t “the One”, but I can’t believe a man who has been skulking in hospitals for years, rather than telling you what happened to him, is right for you either.’

  Mariette felt very much worse after Sybil went home. She was feverish and weepy, but she put it down to her irritation that Sybil hadn’t agreed with her about Edwin and had poured cold water on to her meeting up with Morgan again.

  She was also hurt that Edwin hadn’t sent a loving, concerned message via Sybil. She knew that she was being entirely irrational, given that she’d just been complaining about him. But she knew he would have expected her to be at his bedside the very next day, if he’d been shot down.

  She also felt cross with the doctor because he hadn’t come back to her to discuss what the X-ray revealed. She had expected her knee to be painful for some time, but not as bad as it was, and no one had come near her to check if she needed stronger painkillers.

  The smell of the mince and carrots for tea made her stomach heave, and she didn’t even try it. The orderly who came to take her plate told her off for not eating her dinner, and Mariette snapped at her, saying it wasn’t fit for a dog.

  Afterwards, she was ashamed. She lay back on the pillow and cried.

  She was still crying when Morgan came in. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know really,’ she replied. ‘I just feel miserable, and my knee is really throbbing.’

  He put his hand on her forehead, and she saw a look of concern on his face. ‘How long have you been hot like this?’ he asked.

  ‘A while,’ she said.

  ‘How long is it since they took your temperature and checked your blood pressure?’

  ‘The staff nurse did it when she changed my dressing this morning,’ she said.

  ‘Not since?’

  She shook her head.

  Morgan got up and went out of the room. He returned a few seconds later with Staff Nurse Jones, who was just about to go off duty. She took the chart from the foot of Mariette’s bed and pursed her lips as she looked at Morgan.

  ‘It seems she was forgotten. We have been very busy this afternoon, but that is no excuse. But never mind, I’ll do it now.’

  She took Mariette’s pulse, checked her blood pressure and put the thermometer in her mouth. After checking her temperature, she looked concerned and said she was going to call the doctor. She asked Morgan to stay with Mariette.

  ‘Was my temperature high? And what does that mean?’ she asked him, once Staff Nurse Jones had left the room.

  ‘I think it must have been high, and that could mean you’ve got a little infection. Or you could be coming down with something. Either way, they’ll soon put you right.’

  She wondered if he was holding her hand because that was what he did with anyone who was ill. Or was it because she was special? She really didn’t feel well, and it was more than just feeling weepy because Sybil had been short with her, or the doctor hadn’t come.

  ‘Were you out in the cold, on the open sea, for a long time before you were picked up?’ he asked.

  ‘I think it was only an hour,’ she said, ‘but it seemed like for ever. The children were very quiet and brave. I hope they are all somewhere nice now.’

  A little voice at the back of her head reminded her she wasn’t supposed to talk about the rescue. But she felt too woozy to care, and closed her eyes.

  ‘I had to kill a German to get away,’ she heard herself say. Her voice sounded a very long way off. ‘I cut his throat, and his blood was all over me. But I can’t have done it properly because he was the one who fired at me, just as I was getting into the boat.’

  She opened her eyes to find Morgan staring at her. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that,’ she said wearily.

  ‘Maybe you needed to,’ he said, and stroked her forehead soothingly. ‘I won’t be telling anyone else.’

  ‘Is it kismet that we met again?’

  He chuckled. ‘I think it must be. It’s funny that I was so scared of you seeing my face. And yet, now you are poorly, you’re looking at me just the same way you used to.’

  ‘I’m seeing the same man,’ she said. ‘But he’s just a little hazy now. Don’t go away, will you?’

  A little while later, a nurse popped her head round the door to say the doctor was delayed as there was an emergency elsewhere in the hospital.

  Morgan was growing more and more concerned because, by now, Mariette was barely conscious.

  ‘I think this is an emergency too,’ he whispered to the nurse. ‘She’s burning up.’

  He had already soaked a cloth in cold water, wrung it out and put it on her forehead. While he hoped it was just flu, or a very bad cold coming on – something which could easily be treated – a gut feeling told him an infection had got into her wound.

  He’d seen it happen so often before, especially when there was a long period of time between the patient being wounded and arriving in hospital. One minute the patient was cheerful and chatty, the next running a fever. But, even worse, all too often this led to the infected limb being amputated.

  People often asked Morgan if he would rather have lost a limb than be burned. He always told them he’d rather have the burn, as it wasn’t the curse others saw it as.

  He had been retreating to Dunkirk with his regiment when a German plane fired on the truck he was driving, and it burst into flames. Before he could get out of the truck, the flames had licked up his face, and the searing pain almost paralysed him. In that moment, he thought he was going to die.

  But another soldier hauled him out of the truck and smothered his face in a wet cloth. Fortunately, his uniform had protected his body, and the burns on his hands were only superficial.

  He did feel very sorry for himself, at first. The pain, the shock of being disfigured and the fear that he would be a kind of outcast for the rest of his life made him feel like killing himself for a while. But when he was still at the hospital in Folkestone, he was told he could transfer to the vast Netley Military Hospital, near Southampton, to be seen by Dr Franz Dudek, a brilliant Polish plastic surgeon.

  Dr Dudek might have improved his appearance with his patience and skill, but it was Mr Mercer, a surgeon at Netley, who really turned Morgan’s life around purely by giving him the will to learn to read and write.

  ‘You must master it,’ he said simply. ‘A handsome face may have opened doors for you before the accident, but a scarred one may slam those doors shut unless you can prove to people you are smart.’

 
Mr Mercer asked Mrs Lovage, a former primary school teacher and the wife of one of his friends, to teach Morgan. He left the ward three afternoons a week for his lessons with her, in a small office which was rarely used. Three months later, during which time he had undergone three separate operations on his face, he could read as well as Mrs Lovage. And she’d also schooled him in writing letters.

  Because Morgan was afraid of having to leave the hospital, where he felt safe and accepted, he made himself useful on the wards, portering, feeding patients and cleaning. Sometimes, when he helped bath or feed soldiers who had lost both legs, been crushed by heavy machinery, or been shot in the head and suffered severe brain damage, he knew he was lucky it was only his face.

  He was a voluntary worker at Netley for almost a year, happy to work for bed and board. At night-time he read any book about nursing that he could get his hands on.

  It was Mr Mercer who persuaded him to take a porter’s post at Southampton Borough Hospital, where he also operated and could speak up for Morgan. As he pointed out, Morgan couldn’t hide in a military hospital for ever, he had to learn to mix with civilians again.

  As it turned out, the Borough was a much happier place for him than Netley. It wasn’t run on military lines, as Netley had been, and it wasn’t so vast, or impersonal. People did stare at him, and sometimes he overheard remarks too, but he found that it bothered him less and less as time went by, and the majority of staff were warm and friendly.

  The management made a special case of him, allowing him to do his nursing training on the job, and giving him time off from portering to attend lectures. He found that working in a hospital wasn’t that different from being on a ship – everyone had their jobs, and they all pulled together. He found lodgings close to the hospital, and he even made some friends.

  In three months’ time, he was due to take his final nursing exams. He didn’t know if any other hospital would want a male nurse, so he might have to stay at the Borough, but that was fine by him, he was happy there.

  When he was first injured, he had thought about Mariette constantly. While he was still in Folkestone he wrote a letter telling her not to come and visit him, half hoping she would disobey him. He tortured himself with thoughts of her with another man too. Later, once he’d been transferred to Netley, he was tempted to write again and beg her to visit him, if only to prove to himself that he had been right in thinking she’d run a mile from him.