The Nurse's War

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘She knew you were going out, didn’t she?’ Daisy nodded. ‘Then she’ll understand. You can speak to her in the morning. Tonight the Ritz awaits. And to make things even more peachy, I’ve just seen tomorrow’s shifts—neither of us are on until nine. How lucky is that?’

  She only half heard Connie’s words. She was remembering the almost desperate note in the girl’s voice. ‘Willa braved the dining room tonight,’ she went on, ‘that was my chance to speak to her.’ She jumped up from the chair and stood, irresolute. ‘I could go to her room now.’

  ‘You can’t. There’s no time. If you start listening to her troubles, you’ll make yourself late for your taxi.’

  ‘Then I’ll call another one.’

  She couldn’t get the unfortunate Willa out of her mind. They’d been on the same ward today and when she’d asked, the girl had said she was fine, but her white face and tight mouth told a different story. And her eyes, her eyes had made Daisy shiver; they’d been blank, hardly alive. And then tonight, coming into the Home, the girl had twitched at her sleeve, her head bowed, seeming unable to look into Daisy’s face.

  ‘There won’t be another taxi.’ Connie planted herself in front of the door, barring the way. ‘Willa has problems with a capital P. You know that. And she’ll still have them tomorrow. You can see her then. Tonight’s too special. Now are you going to let me make you up?’

  Daisy felt unhappy. Surely she could spare the poor girl a few minutes. But the clock was ticking and the evening about to begin. Her stomach was already fluttering with excitement. Her friend was tugging at her arm, trying to steer her towards the inadequate mirror.

  ‘I’ll do my own make-up, thanks Connie. I’d rather.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I intend to be bold and go to town with the red lipstick. The Astoria is bound to have lighting that’s very bright and I don’t want to be bleached out.’

  She settled down at the desk, humming quietly to herself. Daisy watched, but her mind was elsewhere, thinking of all the ways in which she could have been a better colleague. In ten minutes, Connie had finished and swivelled round to face her. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘You’ll certainly make your mark.’ Her friend had found a vivid green eyeshadow and used it to complement the blood-red lipstick. Her hair, hennad the previous night, shone brightly copper.

  ‘Is it too much?’

  ‘You said yourself that artificial light leaves you looking a ghost,’ she replied diplomatically. Connie could take strong colour, she thought, and at this moment she looked positively vibrant.

  Her friend scooped up the olive-green dress and funnelled it over her shoulders, tugging at it hard to fit over ample hips. ‘It doesn’t look that great,’ she mused, moving this way and that in front of the small mirror. ‘Still beggars and all that …’

  ‘You look fine.’ Daisy hugged her. ‘Colin will know you’ve made a tremendous effort and be flattered. And so he should be.’

  The girl smiled cheerfully back. A small thing like a tight dress wasn’t going to spoil her evening, though Daisy hoped she would get her one decent frock back with the seams intact. Except it was no longer her one decent frock.

  ‘Let’s see the black lace then.’

  She slid the wispy confection over her head and shoulders and pushed her feet into her best shoes. They had nearly crippled her the last time she’d worn them, but then she’d walked miles. This evening she would have the luxury of taxis both ways.

  She became aware of Connie staring at her. ‘What?’

  ‘You look sensational.’ Her friend drew a reverent sigh.

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Take a look,’ and she stepped to one side so that Daisy could view herself in the mirror. At any one time, she could only see a small part of her image, but it was sufficient. Her eyes travelled slowly downwards, taking in her barely made-up face, her dainty waist and finally, as she backed across the room, the remainder of the dress in all its splendour. Even with a shrunken mirror, she could see how it flowed effortlessly, swirling and swishing in a way that no wartime dress should. The amount of material it used was profligate, an utter and complete extravagance. And she loved it. She would keep it forever, she decided.

  The taxi dropped her at the front entrance of the Ritz at a minute to seven. Piccadilly was alive with people. In fact, every street they’d driven down had seen crowds out to enjoy themselves. Clubs featuring live bands, theatres staging the latest shows, were full to capacity. Max Miller was at the Holborn Empire, she noticed, and a fabulous new singer, Vera Lynn, was performing songs from her radio programme, Sincerely Yours. She must remember to tell Connie. Nurses were frequently offered free tickets at short notice and she knew her friend watched the board outside Matron’s office assiduously. A Vera Lynn show would be special.

  As soon as the cab drew into the kerb, she saw Grayson’s tall figure through one of the stone archways. He was standing just outside the hotel lobby, his back to its revolving door. She was used to him always looking smart. Even in the searing Indian heat, his shirts had been immaculate and his shorts knife-pleated. But tonight, in evening dress, he appeared more elegant than any man she’d ever seen. And she was able to match him, she thought giddily. Connie had been right about the dress and she sent a silent thank you to her friend.

  He helped her from the cab and ushered her into the sumptuous interior. The lights might have been switched off outside, but behind the blackout curtains, chandeliers blazed amid a cocoon of red and gold silk. He eased her nurse’s cape from her shoulders and immediately a uniformed receptionist glided forward to take it. To hide it more like, Daisy thought dryly, imagining the worn garment slowly suffocating beneath a tide of cashmere and furs. Grayson had turned and was looking at her properly for the first time. For a moment, he seemed stunned, unable to speak. Then the familiar smile flitted across his face and he said simply, ‘You look sensational.’ Connie’s exact words but now doubly precious.

  His hand found her elbow and guided her towards an opening on their left. ‘Our table will be ready in half an hour but first let me show you off in the bar.’ A rich, dark space opened up before them, lit by even more chandeliers, though this time dimmed to a subtle warmth.

  When the waiter had taken their order, she looked around at the scattering of dark wood tables and silk-cushioned chairs. The room was divided into separate spaces by arches of ornamented mahogany, which made it impossible to see most of the people who shared the bar with them. Grayson sat upright in his chair, his eyes fixed on her, unable, it seemed, to look away. She roused herself to speak, to break the spell that seemed to have him in its hold.

  ‘Did you check the room for spies beforehand?’ She was only half joking.

  ‘No time, I’m afraid.’ Her taunt had woken him. ‘I should have, though. All kinds of dubious characters infest cocktail bars like this. But it’s usually fashionable wasters who can make a living from scams or even worse, blackmail.’

  The waiter placed two fluted glasses on the table in front of them. ‘A martini cocktail,’ Grayson explained. ‘I hope you like it.

  ‘Perhaps we should carry out an inspection now,’ he said once the waiter had left. ‘That man over there, for instance, what do you reckon?’

  She looked across at the corner seat he was indicating. The man in question wore the extravagant military dress of a country she couldn’t name.

  ‘He’s in uniform,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Exactly. What better disguise for a spy?’

  ‘Apart from a dinner jacket and bow tie you mean?’

  ‘Or a frock of the most enchanting black lace?’

  She blushed. She was enjoying the power of the dress, but she hadn’t quite bargained for its full effect.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be too facetious,’ he cautioned. ‘There was a serious incident yesterday, possibly the work of spies, although as yet we don’t know.’

  She took a cautious sip of the martini and felt it kick against her
throat. ‘Where? What happened?’

  ‘A kidnapping. Or rather an attempted kidnapping.’

  The alcohol was loosening her mind to wander unexpected byways. The incident in the Strand came back to her with force. Surely not.

  ‘It happened on Kingsway. Chandan Patel, you remember the Congress chap I mentioned. He was on his way to Whitehall. He was due to have a preliminary meeting there with a junior minister when he was pounced on. Apparently, a saloon car overtook his cab and forced it to a halt.’

  She took an even longer sip of her drink. ‘And were they successful, the kidnappers?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘As it happens, no. Patel was lucky. Or rather we were. A fire engine just happened to be racing from the opposite direction to answer a call, and found its way blocked. And behind the fire brigade was a police car—it must have been a serious fire. Our would-be kidnapper took fright when he realised what he had to deal with. He spun his car and sped off before anyone thought to stop him.’

  Grayson gestured to the waiter, and two more martinis glided gracefully on to the table.

  ‘I know,’ she said quietly.

  When they were alone again, he leaned towards her. ‘What do you mean, you know?’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  ‘I was on my way back to Barts from meeting you, and just crossing over from the Strand when a car nearly knocked me down. It must have been the kidnapper’s car.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’ Grayson was eager. ‘Anything at all that might suggest a clue to the man’s identity? We’ve given Patel extra security, but we still need to find the blighter.’

  ‘He wasn’t alone. There were two of them, there was a passenger in the front seat,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I thought the driver looked familiar.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s all, really. I thought I might have met him somewhere but I’ve no idea where. Nothing else.’

  Grayson looked deflated.

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I only saw him for an instant—when the car flew by on the opposite side of the road. I thought he snatched a glance at me as he sped past, but that was probably imagination.’

  He took her hands and held on to them tightly. ‘Think for a minute, Daisy. We need this man behind bars at Latchmere House. We need to question him. And soon. Intelligence that’s stale is like food, it does more harm than good, so we must strike now. Where could you have seen him?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help.’ Then, ‘I wish this was all over.’ The words came out sounding more anguished than she’d wanted.

  He stroked the hand he was holding. ‘It will be over very soon and I’m sorry to have pressed you.’

  He relaxed back into his chair. ‘I presume Gerald knows by now that you’ve secured his future.’ She heard the slight note of bitterness that he couldn’t quite conceal.

  ‘I wrote to him straight after you left the café and gave the note to an ambulance driver who lives in Gerald’s district. He promised to deliver it, and I’m sure he’ll have done so.’

  The head waiter materialised beneath the nearest mahogany arch, his podgy hand waving graciously in their direction and beckoning them to follow.

  ‘Good. Food at last.’ Grayson got to his feet and again offered her his arm. ‘Let’s go and eat. I’m ravenous.’

  They followed the black-suited mâitre d’ through several adjoining rooms, each eerily quiet, and then down several flights of steps with naked brickwork on either side. The staircase they were descending was badly lit, increasingly so, and soft carpet soon gave way to a rough drugget and then to unadorned stone. At the bottom of the staircase, a passage stretched before them, bare and deserted, punctuated by a series of grubby doors. Here and there sandbags had been packed against scaffolding poles painted in the colours of the Union Jack. It seemed an extraordinary way to begin dinner, and Daisy began to wonder if this was some kind of joke. If it was, then Grayson was in on it. They came to a halt outside a closed door at the end of the passage. The head waiter inclined his head towards them, then opened the door with a flourish and instantly they were engulfed in noise: a deluge of chatter and clatter and music, vibrating around and through the cavernous space.

  ‘La Popote,’ the mâitre d’ announced.

  ‘What?’ She looked startled, unsure of where she was.

  ‘It’s the grill room,’ Grayson explained. ‘All the posh hotels have these underground restaurants. I imagine the space used to function as a store for provisions, but it’s got a new role now—as a safe place to eat.’

  The walls of the room were thickly padded, she noticed, and packed with more sandbags kept in place by wooden props and naked metal struts. Candles burned in the necks of empty wine bottles sitting atop utility tablecloths. A candlebra of more bottles lit the modest space allocated for dancing. A miasma of expensive cigarettes swirled in the air. They were shown to a table a little distance from the band, but on the far edge of the dance floor. Behind the stage where the musicians were playing, a mural of the Western Front in 1914 had been painted, and on another wall, caricatures of Hitler and Goering.

  ‘We won’t make this a late night, I promise. I imagine you have to be up at first light.’

  ‘I’ve some of the morning free in fact.’ A blissful nine o’clock start, Daisy remembered. ‘But several hours of fire duty after my shift. That means a long day.’

  Everyone had been forced to fire-watch since the government made it compulsory. But the rota was not popular, particularly when nurses had to take their turn after a gruelling day on the ward.

  Grayson frowned. ‘I’m surprised you have to do it. Surely it would be better for porters and orderlies to be on the roof?’

  ‘It probably would, but there aren’t enough of them. There aren’t enough men in the hospital. The doctors are spread thinly and, of course, there aren’t any male nurses so we women have to do our share. And it’s not too bad—now the hospital is better equipped. We’ve a roof full of sandbags and stirrup pumps, and last month they gave us helmets to wear, just like real wardens.’

  A waiter glided sideways up to their table and with a flourish produced two glass bowls, piled high with something that Daisy thought looked exciting. He served the iced dishes alongside neat quarters of bread and butter.

  ‘It looks pink,’ she said, peering intently into her bowl. ‘What is it, do you think?’

  ‘Lobster cocktail would be my guess.’

  ‘Goodness!’ and without another word she gave herself up to the pleasure of eating. For once, it was food she could savour. Restaurants allowed diners to eat off ration, she knew, and the food was always going to be far superior to anything served in canteens or indeed in a nurses’ dining room. They ate in companionable silence, until Grayson put his cutlery down and gave a small sigh of pleasure.

  ‘That was good. And there’s partridge with bread sauce to follow, and all kinds of vegetables—though hopefully not a turnip in sight. We don’t get anything like this at Baker Street.’

  ‘Nor at Barts,’ she added with a smile.

  He was leaning forward to speak again, when the band struck up a foxtrot. She could feel her toes begin to tap beneath the table, but tried hard to appear indifferent. The music was too reminiscent of their nights on-board the Strathnaver. Such memories, though, held no fear for Grayson. He laid his napkin to one side and got to his feet. ‘The main course will be a while yet. Let’s snatch a dance before you have to flee the ball.’

  She started to find an excuse, but had mumbled only a few words when he strode around the table and lifted her out of the chair. ‘Come on, Daisy, it’s one dance, that’s all.’

  Several other couples were already swaying their way around the small space, clearly enjoying the sounds and rhythm of a top-class dance band. Everybody it seemed was out to have fun, bent on th
rusting a monochrome world aside and, for a short while, splashing themselves in colour. And she was no exception. She would enjoy sinking deep into this haven of pleasure, enchanted by the candles’ soft light, the bubble of conversation, the sparkle of the women’s jewels. It wouldn’t be for long, she decided. It would be fun to dance steps she hadn’t practised for a very long time, to lean into the music and allow its seductive melody to wash over her. But then she would lead the way back to their table, eat another delicious plate of food, and leave with the papers tucked in her handbag.

  Grayson was a good dancer. She’d forgotten just how good, and they’d made several turns of the floor before she was even aware of him holding her, or aware of the harmony of their steps. But then, as he moved closer, she smelt the tangy freshness of his skin, the smell she remembered so well from all those months ago in India, and she felt herself begin to lose her determined control. It was fortunate that before her body could wander into dangerous territory, the foxtrot came to an end. She should prompt him to return to their table, she knew. But, almost immediately, the band began to play again and this time the music was sweet and smoky and languidly soft.

  ‘One more dance?’ he said quietly in her ear.

  Before she could refuse, he’d pulled her close. She liked the feel of him so very much and wished she didn’t. His face settled against her dark curls, his mouth brushing her cheek. Neither of them spoke, and she allowed her body to float, her feet to flow by instinct. Round and round the small floor they drifted, their bodies growing closer, their limbs shadowing each other. They seemed to be dancing in a dream. With every minute, she felt herself melt a little further, felt herself absorbed inch by inch, two figures slowly transforming into one. She had lost any strength to fight back. Every dormant nerve, every fibre that had slept for months, was kicked into life and craved satisfaction.

  He had both his arms around her and she laid her head on his chest. If she looked up she knew she would meet his smile. He would be looking down and his lips moving towards her. He would kiss her. She wanted that kiss. She looked up and there was his smile, his lips. His head bent towards her, but the kiss never came. The air was rent. A siren, two sirens—one must be the Ritz’s own, she thought, dazed by the sudden shattering of the moment. Their piercing wail brought the scene to a close. The band stopped playing. Dancers stopped dancing. Waiters abandoned food on the nearest tables and began ushering their customers across the room to a second doorway. Along with everyone else, she and Grayson were hustled into a passage, almost identical to the first, and with a similarly large number of doors leading from it.