by Paul Kelly
“But you don’t look any more than... twenty-five now Garry.
He shook his head and closed his eyes
“I’m goin’ on thirty-three, young lady... old enough to be your father....”
I raised my eyebrows. “Hardly,” I said cynically as he giggled again.
“Well, I was always a well-developed boy, you know.”
“You must have been to have fathered me when you were NINE,” I concluded and he waved his hands in the air.
“Never mind that, but tell me …why hasn’t such a beautiful girl like you got herself a young man? I mean a real man, not a dream or a ‘protector’ as this Jeremy seems to be. Can’t you take the bull by the horns and tell him you love him?”
I pushed my plate away from me and my knife fell to the floor. Garry picked it up.
“Garry, I’m not in love with Jeremy... I never have been. We were two very young people thrown together by circumstances that were not our concern. I liked him... yes, I might even love him, but I’m not ‘in love’ with him... and that is the difference. We were like lost children in a cocoon, where we believed, because everyone else around us believed, that one day, we would grow up and get married. I honestly think I left home to take up nursing just to get away from it all. It was all so claustrophobic and even now, when I’m back in the house with Jeremy and Aunt Martha, it feels the same now as it did then. I love Jeremy as I would love a brother, but as for being in love with him... NO.”
Garry sat still and waited for whatever else I was going to say, but I knew I had already said enough... perhaps too much.
“May I ask how old you are Frannie?”
It was a question I didn’t think Garry would ask me, but I told him I would be twenty-four in April and he played with his fork again, stabbing the last of his treacle scone with a vengeance.
“You’ve got your whole life in front of you... surely you must have met someone... some nice young man, since you’ve been in the Nursing Service... oh, surely Frannie... I would have thought the nursing profession would be the best training and environment in the world to get a husband... No?”
“It’s supposed to be, I guess, but all I ever meet are over-sensitive Mummy’s boys or spoiled and dangerous divorcees. The reasonable ‘someones’ are always married with a dozen children... and a dog... “
Garry choked on his scone as he laughed at my remarks and I slapped him on the back.
“Oh dear... oh dear, Frannie,” he coughed and spluttered as he tried to talk, “You do sound as though you’ll have to throw in the towel and become a Nun, after all. There’s nothing else for it, is there?” I raised my eyes to the ceiling in mock despair and we enjoyed another familiar giggle together …”Come on,” he said, “Drink your tea whilst it’s hot and we’ll have another pot.”
“No thank you Garry. I couldn’t eat or drink another thing, thank you.”
He slid his hand across the table and touched my fingers with his.
“There is someone... I know there is... I’m right, ain’t’ I?” he said slowly and his eyes never left mine.
It was then I told him about Darius Crane... somewhat reluctantly... and how I had met him in the desert and how I would not allow myself the freedom that perhaps I should have done, under the circumstances.
“Circumstances … circumstances... what circumstances?”
His eyebrows shot up into his forehead as he asked me that question.
“Well... well, he’s nineteen for a start and he’s....”
Garry stopped playing with his fork.
“Go on,” he said... and I looked away from him as I spoke again.
“Well... he’s only a private soldier in the R.A.M.C,” I added as I lowered my head when Garry lifted his serviette and shook it in the air.
“Oh! God Almighty,” he said, “Well that explains everything. That’s the worst thing you’ve told me since we met. You couldn’t possible marry a common soldier now... could you?”
His eyes were angry and he stared at me in a strange way, with a look that I had never seen in his face before. It puzzled me.
“But he’s nineteen Garry... He’s only a child... for God’s sake.”
“A child in uniform, Frannie? Well, I ask you. He’s old enough to fight for his country... He could get a woman pregnant given half a chance,”
I stood up indignantly and his eyes followed mine as I moved.
“Father... there is no reason to be so crude. I’m not thinking of marrying this... young man and I’m certainly not contemplating having his child.”
He reached up and took my hand tenderly in his own, inviting me to sit down again.
“Well at least he’s a young man now... and not a child any more, so that’s somethin’ “ He ran his finger round the brim of his cup as he spoke. “Frannie... dear, dear Frannie... God puts happiness on our table, but some of us will not eat... It is for us to accept... He will never force-feed us. Then there will be times when we’re hungry and would even pick up the crumbs from the table if we could. When He offers happiness, don’t reject it. Don’t scorn His wisdom because of what you consider to be logic. Frannie... do you love this man?
I knew I was going to cry and I tried to control the tears, but my nose felt tight and my eyes ached and I knew I could hold on no longer. The tears fell despite all the brave and strong intentions that were mine at that moment and I nodded my assent. He patted my hand.
“Then go for it Frannie... and my blessing goes with you.”
***
I left my priest-friend for the second time in my stupid, indecisive life, feeling as though he had given me something that money couldn’t buy and I returned to the Manse with renewed vitality and with a different vision for the future. I allowed myself to think of Darius, freely and without restriction, whenever he came to mind, which I hardly need add, was often... very often. I spoke to him in my heart and told him that I loved him and that I would marry him, if he would have me. I cried a lot, but then I laughed a lot too... and I couldn’t wait for the ship to take me back to Basra.
Chapter Six
Jeremy took me to dinner at Mario’s in Wellington Street, the evening before I was due to return to Iraq. We hadn’t seen much of each other in the month of my leave in England, but in a way, that suited us. He was part of me in a strange sort of way, due to the circumstances of our parent’s marriage. It was a situation, which I have never been able to explain or even understand, but we each had such an understanding of one another which should have made a complete and total recipe for marriage, except for the ingredient of much more importance... LOVE. I think now, on reflection, that I did love Jeremy in a very special, or rather, particular way and sometimes even envied him his assurance in his relationships... and yet, as I write this, I can still see him cry... like a little boy, in deepest and profound grief when the love of his life treated him scornfully or did not, or could not respond to the love he had to give. He was a happy-go-lucky person on the surface, but that outer skin could so very easily be broken and he would bleed profusely. He had a very tender and loving heart and somewhat of a purity of soul, despite his controversial life-style and of his particular sexual persuasion. Yes, I loved him in a brotherly way. That was sure, but I could never have married him although I would have trusted him with the care of my soul.
We talked over dinner about many things, including his current love and I’m sure he felt relaxed in my presence as much as I did in his. We were a strange pair... There was no competition for we each ran a different race. We were a couple of orphans whose parents had run off to seek a happiness of their own whilst leaving us with a friendship that was idealistic and full of the deepest understanding. It is the saddest thing perhaps... that we could never have become lovers.
“You will take care now dahling... won’t you... and keep yourself in
the shade of that horrible heat you have to bear? Now promise me you will... and look after that lovely delicate skin of yours,” Jeremy urged, “Don’t spoil anything for that certain young man who will surely come your way and sweep you off your feet and make you the most important person in his life. I will always love you my dear, you know that... and if ever you need me, though I have little to offer... you have only to write and tell your Jeremy of anything he can do for you. You know that dahling, don’t you?”
We held hands, unashamedly and talked like a couple on their silver wedding anniversary, but Jeremy and I were ships that were destined to pass in the night. Ships with a destination and cargo that was so very different and we would always go our separate ways and I wondered if Jeremy wasn’t thinking of his own love, when he tried to visualize mine.
We enjoyed the evening together and then he put me in a taxi, telling the driver to take me home safely...whilst he went on to a rendezvous in Leicester Square.
***
I embarked for Iraq from Southampton on the ‘Amsterdam Lady’ on a Sunday morning. The ship was packed with military personnel, mostly soldiers, returning to the Middle East, with a few new recruits on their first voyage abroad. The camaraderie was warm and infectious with a great deal of singing on the decks with officers and men drinking and laughing together, regardless of rank. There were only four women on board, so we had to stick together... however, there were no problems that we couldn’t handle. It took three weeks to arrive in Cairo and the familiar native swimming boys were a delight to the eye. We would throw coins into the harbour waters and they would dive for them, coming back up to the surface with large triumphant eyes and with the silver coins between their teeth. I was glad to be coming home again …
We had three hours to wait in Cairo before the convoy could take us into the desert, bound for Iraq and Baghdad and on through to Margill, down to the 15th Indian General Hospital on the Persian Gulf, so I spent some time visiting the Catholic Cathedral there which was dedicated to St. Joan of Arc. (She was also a female soldier, I reminded myself). I just mooned around, thinking most of the time about Garry and our last conversation and wondering if and when I would ever see him again. There was a large statue of the Maid of Orleans outside the church and so I presumed it might be the French quarter of the city. Priests sat in the many confessionals around the main body of the Cathedral as I walked about in the cool and welcome shade of the building. They were waiting for customers, to confess their sins I guessed and I wondered what sort of conversation went on in those little cubby-holes where priest and penitent huddled together … I wondered if the priests were anything like Father Gillespie in their philosophy of life and if they too, ‘sermonized’ and did they ever eat soda or treacle scones with pure butter and whisky marmalade... in an impractical carton ...and with a female companion?
My heart was beginning to feel sad, with a wave of nostalgia pulling me back to the Strand Palace as I came out again from that sanctuary of peace, into the burning heat of the sun. I looked up at the granite statue of the Maid, in full armour, except for her head that was bare showing her cropped hair like that of a boy and with her sword in her hands pointing towards her feet. I did a strange thing then. I introduced myself to her and asked her to look after Father Garry and all my friends. I wanted to ask her about Darius, but I found it difficult when I remembered how she had fought with men in the battlefields near Orleans but had never been in love... well, so we are told.
***
Very soon I found myself lost in the crowded streets listening to the merchants screaming out their bargain of the day and mourning with the beggars who went about on their skateboards as a substitute for legs; their ‘stumps’ bleeding through the cracks in the encrusted mud that covered their limbs. I don’t think I have ever seen poverty to this degree, ever before or since, in my life and the smell of the incense and candle-wax from the home of St. Joan lingered in my nostrils still. I was happy, despite the disturbing scene. I loved Egypt... but I loved Iraq even more and I loved most of all the Jewel of Basra as I waited with enthusiasm to return to the ‘eyes’ that filled so much of my thought... I just could not wait …
Chapter Seven
The trucks rolled up solemnly in front of the gates of the 15th Indian General and I jumped out down onto the warm sand, pulling my dusty grips with me as I went... and feeling overwhelmingly happy. A young Corporal saw me struggling to keep my balance in the thin white salt-like sand and called out to me, just before I fell... weighed down with my luggage.
“Can ah help ye, Sister. Yer bags look awfy heavy.”
The Scottish soldier was a welcome sight and I was delighted to let him carry my luggage to the Sister’s Quarters, far up on the hill, overlooking the hospital wards and theatres.
“Are ye comin’ or goin’ lass?” he shouted... understandably of course, as I had never seen him in the hospital before and my tan looked a bit ‘faded’ and needed ‘topping up’. I explained that I was an old hand at the hospital and that I worked in the Theatres, which settled any dispute about my... comin’ or goin’ and he took my luggage right into my own apartment at the Quarters, which consisted of a bedroom, a small sitting room and a very primitive shower. We didn’t need a kitchen as we ate in the common dining room and artificial grass on wire mats hung down outside the windows where cold water poured from a pipe along the outside roof daily, to ensure that the Quarters were kept cool. I thought the idea was quite ingenious when I first saw it and it certainly was very effective. I thanked the Corporal and he saluted me, assuring me the pleesure was entirely his.
I looked around my renewed abode with pleasure and saw again the small little knickknacks I had brought with me when I first came to Basra ...a silver framed photograph of Jeremy, smiling at me as I came through the door, warning me again, I imagined... to watch the heat of the sun on my delicate skin... I had a picture of Marble Arch on the wall and a couple of snaps of mummy and daddy, taken in better days when they were together, on a green felt board with various instructions and hospital orders. I felt as though I had never been away as I quickly put everything back in the wardrobe and drawers before I headed for the shower.
It was seven o’clock when I stepped out into the hospital grounds as Lieutenant F. Barrington-Smythe, Q.A. Number 40753 again and made my way to the operating theatres. I went into the trolley rooms and donned a theatre gown, pulling a mask over my chin and a white linen cap on my head. The theatres seemed quiet but then it never was a noisy vocation to work there and very soon I found some floating, indistinct shadows on the opaque partitions of Theatre 2 where some white-clad figures toiled silently and industriously at their task as I tried to establish an identity, either by shape or size, but without success.
Eventually, the doors were opened and Colonel Steel stood in front of me, tearing his bloodstained gloves from his hands and smiling at the same time, in welcome.
“Frannie... it’s wonderful to see you again, but it seems only yesterday since you went on leave. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun....” he remarked with a jovial smile. He threw his arms around me and gave me a ‘bear hug’ as he had completed his work for that day and his gown was no longer sterile... Touching in any shape or form was out when you were ‘scrubbed up’... for then you were totally S.T.E.R.I.L.E.
Major Tarapor followed him and I got another hug and a welcome, with a promise of dinner the following evening in the N.A.A.F.I. What ecstatic delight....
The little shape that came towards me then, could only have been a woman. It was neat and diminutive, with a white headscarf tied lightly around the head. Two dark eyes studied me for a moment before I saw a smile. “You must be Francesca... Oh, how lovely to meet you. I’m Rhana... Rhana Jacnara.”
I immediately recognized the theatre sister to be the one who was to replace me until I returned from my leave and when she disrobed and I saw her in her uniform as an I
ndian Nursing Officer, I was stunned at her beauty. Sister Jacnara was not pure Indian; she was Anglo Indian and had the most beautiful colour of skin I had ever seen. Her father hailed from Birmingham and her mother from the Punjab, I learned later. She had dark, limpid eyes and the most beautiful shaped nose. It seemed to twitch as she spoke, in an unusually attractive way... almost sensual is probably the best way I could describe it and her white even teeth were like little pearls set in a dark crimson, satin cushion. Her lips were as smooth as silk. Her hair reached to her waist when she let it down from the bun into which she had tied it and it too was dark and thick and very silky. I immediately wondered what the male staff thought about her... especially Darius Crane, but he was nowhere to be seen and I was afraid to ask for him.
That same evening I strolled past the N.A.F.F.I. (the section for other ranks) in the hopes of seeing Darius. He hadn’t been on theatre duty that day and I didn’t want to ask too many questions, as I wondered if he was still with the theatre staff or if he had chickened out, as many O.R.As did... and gone back to the wards. Many of the volunteers for theatre duties did this when they realized the strain of the long hours and the detail to attention, particularly in sterilization and I sincerely hoped, he wasn’t one of them, but there was no sign of him anywhere, although I scrutinized faces and watched heads as they turned from my view outside the window. It was to no avail... Darius just wasn’t there.
I retired to bed early; sad, lonely and disappointed at my loss and deflated in all my dreams. Sad that my return to the desert had been seemingly fruitless and I fell asleep, but not before telling myself how stupid I had been. I didn’t really know this young Darius Crane. My thoughts and dreams of him were simply a figment of my fertile imagination and I could see Jeremy’s face again as he sneered and taunted my eyes and me before my head grew heavy ached with the desire to sleep …
