Connie grabbed her by the arm and hurried her away. ‘You’re to take no notice. Penrose is a cow, the most unpleasant woman I’ve ever met. Come on, I’ve got things to tell you.’
On the other side of the room, Willa rose to her feet and walked mechanically out of the door. Daisy knew she should go after her. She still hadn’t had the talk she’d promised and now would be an ideal moment. But she was too upset by Lydia’s words, too incensed, to give Willa the attention she needed. Instead, she allowed Connie to lead her to the battered sofa they’d made their own.
She slumped down on its cushions and brooded in silence. Her friend sat beside her and waited. Eventually, though, she could wait no longer and burst into speech.
‘It was amazing. Last night, I mean. Colin was amazing.’
Daisy roused herself to take an interest. ‘He’s a great dancer,’ her friend breathed. ‘A regular shincracker. I had difficulty keeping up with him and I must have stood on his toes plenty, but he never mentioned it, not once. He’s a darling. We danced for hours, or at least it seemed like that and then the siren sounded and we had to beetle out and find the nearest shelter. We were stuck there for an age, but it didn’t matter. It was scary though. The noise was horrendous—a sort of screaming in the air alongside the sound of bombs. Colin said it was JU88 dive-bombers. He knows such a lot. And we talked and talked, and there was this funny, little old man who’d brought his accordion and was playing tunes and we sang along to them.’
‘Is Colin an amazing singer, too?’
‘Don’t make fun. No, he isn’t, but he’s a great sport and you needed to sing, just to keep up your spirits. It was the most tremendous raid.’
‘I know it was. Have you seen all the destruction?’
‘Not really. I’ve been on the ward all day and last night we walked back in the dark. Some of us had a bed to go to. Our own bed.’ And she looked pointedly at Daisy.
‘The Ritz has rooms underground.’ She tried very hard not to redden. ‘Rooms to shelter in,’ she added.
‘And what else?’
There was to be no escape. Connie could read her too easily. ‘What was it like?’
She knew her friend wasn’t referring to the underground room. ‘Wonderful,’ she said simply, ‘wonderful.’
Connie gave her an enormous hug. ‘So you’re together now.’
‘Don’t go too fast.’
‘Not go too fast. What do you think you were doing last night?’
‘I don’t know. And I don’t know how it will end. All I know is that I feel free and happy and …’
‘Wonderful!’
They fell about laughing and were shushed by a nurse at one of the tables, a stack of textbooks at her elbow.
‘I knew he was for you,’ Connie whispered excitedly.
She didn’t answer but instead looked across at their studious colleague. ‘Perhaps we should play a game of cards,’ she suggested. ‘As long as it doesn’t get too noisy.’
‘You really are goody-two-shoes,’ her friend scoffed.
She walked across to one of the groaning cupboards that lined the sitting room wall and rummaged, disgorging half its contents across the threadbare carpet before she held aloft a pack of cards.
‘There. I hope it’s worth the effort,’ and she threw the pack down on to one of the side tables.
‘Tut tut, Nurse Driscoll. Everything in ship-shape fashion,’ Connie clucked an imitation of Sister Elton.
‘Gin rummy?’
‘I think so. This time I’ll slaughter you.’
They played for an hour or so in a spirit of friendly rivalry, Connie interrupting play every so often to recount snippets of her magnificent evening with Colin, or to persuade Daisy to divulge the intimate details of her night. Several nurses drifted in and out, the student packed her books and departed, and a doctor looking for Sister Phillips poked his head around the door. When he’d gone, Daisy stopped playing.
‘I need to go to bed,’ she yawned.
‘No, you need to go to sleep,’ Connie mocked.
They had cleared the table of cards and were piling the moth-eaten cushions back on to the sofa, when the door banged open. The only other girls left in the room, who’d been chatting quietly together in one corner, looked up.
It was Lydia again. She stood immobile in the doorway.
What now? was Daisy’s first impatient thought. But then she noticed that Lydia’s complexion was deathly white and her face frozen. Her jaw seemed trapped, trying ineffectively to work itself free.
She rose quickly, tipping the pack of cards across the floor. ‘Lydia?’ she queried uncertainly. ‘What is it?’
By now Connie had become aware of the little drama being played out in the doorway. ‘Come on, Lydia. Stop being Lady Macbeth,’ she joked. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Willa,’ the girl managed to say at last and her voice came gratingly, barely a whisper. ‘Willa.’
‘What about her?’ The other nurses had stopped chatting and were looking anxious.
‘She’s, she’s …’ But Lydia could not go on.
Connie pushed past the traumatised girl and took the stairs to the bedrooms two at a time. Lydia remained a statue in the doorway, and Daisy was forced to take her by the hand and lead her to a seat.
‘Look after her,’ she said to the nurses who were hovering, uncertain what to do, then turned and followed Connie out of the room.
At the top of the stairs, she met her friend coming out of Willa’s room. ‘Don’t go in there.’ Connie was looking sickly and her voice did not sound her own.
‘Why not?’
‘Stay there. I’ve got to get Sister Phillips.’
‘But—’ Daisy moved towards the door.
‘Don’t!’ Connie screeched. ‘Don’t look.’
‘But Willa—’
‘She’s … she’s dead.’
And it was then, through the open doorway, that Daisy became aware of the soft sway of a body and a pair of feet where they shouldn’t be.
The morning following Willa’s death, Daisy was on the ward at seven o’clock. Sister Phillips had made it clear that despite the dreadful thing that had happened under their very noses, every nurse would be expected to fulfil her duty roster. Daisy was fulfilling it, though she was hardly conscious of doing so. She washed faces, tidied bedclothes, dusted lockers and smiled. She smiled constantly, though inside she was crying and could not stop. It wasn’t just for Willa that she cried—poor, sweet, incompetent Willa—to die in that dreadful way and so very young. It was for herself, for the terrible guilt permeating every pore, until she felt she was rotting from within. Guilty, guilty, guilty. She could have saved the girl if only she hadn’t been so wrapped in her own petty affairs. Willa had cried for help and none had been forthcoming. She’d heard the cry and offered nothing, distracting herself instead by playing out romantic fantasies in an unreal setting.
That was a bubble well and truly burst. She would never think of the Ritz again without thinking, too, of Willa, and those feet swinging a few feet above her head. With a shock, she realised she would never think of Grayson either, without recalling the terrible price her colleague had paid. Willa had needed support and out of all the nurses in the Home, the girl had come to her. Knowing nothing of Daisy’s history, she’d still sensed a kinship between them, and asked for help. A help that hadn’t materialised. Daisy had promised they would talk, promised she would listen to whatever Willa feared and try to advise. And, in the next breath, she had broken that promise. She’d been too dazzled to make time for her. She could have gone to the girl’s room on Saturday evening, but instead she’d put on make-up, put on a fancy dress and gone to the Ritz. She’d told herself that she would see Willa tomorrow. But she hadn’t seen her. She’d been too busy on the ward. And then, last evening, when she could have talked to her, she’d failed again. She hadn’t followed when Willa was so obviously distressed by Lydia’s accusations, but instead she’d sat with Connie and talke
d to her—of Grayson.
Grayson was the problem. He’d distracted her from what was most important and she’d allowed it to happen. He was not good for her; they were not good for each other. Trouble seemed to follow them and always would, and that was something she’d known instinctively. She’d tried to keep her distance, tried to protect herself, and him, by pulling free. But then what had she done but propel herself back into his orbit and allow the old attraction to flare? Meeting again had proved disastrous, in just about every way. That night—she could hardly bear to think of it, the night she had spent with him—the joy, the delight, were no more. Ashes, was what she knew, the taste of ashes.
She hardly saw Connie all day. She knew her friend was somewhere in the background, but she didn’t see her. She didn’t see anyone. Willa’s face superimposed itself on every moment. It startled her when, after dinner, Connie took her hand and led her to the nurses’ sitting room and their favourite sofa. Twenty-four hours ago they’d laughed here over a game of cards, full of life, full of love.
‘You look dreadful, Daisy.’ She didn’t know how to respond. Looking dreadful was the least she could do, she thought dully. ‘You mustn’t take this so hard.’
Daisy swivelled to look at her. ‘How am I supposed to take it?’ she asked, fiercely.
‘It’s sad, terribly sad, but life has to go on. Our lives have to go on.’
‘But not Willa’s.’ Daisy pinned her arms against her stomach and stared down at her feet.
‘No, not Willa’s. But I doubt if she’d want to see us sitting around in this moping way for too long.’
‘How do you know what she’d want? How do any of us know?’
‘Daisy—’
‘It’s true, isn’t it? None of us were too concerned with what she wanted when she was alive. And now she’s dead and past wanting.’
‘You’re taking this too personally.’
There was the slightest hint of irritation in Connie’s voice and, for the first time since they’d met, Daisy felt a distance opening between them. ‘How else am I to take it? I feel responsible.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it? I knew she was unhappy. I knew she was being bullied. And what did I do about it?’
‘What did any of us do? It’s not just you.’
‘No it’s not, Driscoll.’ Another voice had joined them. An unexpected voice. ‘It’s not your concern. It’s mine. I did the bullying. I pushed her to her death.’
They both looked up at Lydia Penrose who had come very quietly into the room, though the figure confronting them no longer seemed to be Lydia. She had shrunk overnight, and her face was tight and parched, the skin scoured across the bones. She planted her feet squarely on the threadbare rug and looked down at them. ‘I’m the one to blame,’ she repeated, ‘and I intend to make amends. Or at least to try.’
‘But how?’ Connie was frowning deeply.
‘I can’t bring Willa back, certainly,’ Lydia said gruffly. ‘But I can look after other dead people. A punishment to fit the crime.’
Daisy and Connie exchanged a speaking look. The tragedy had affected Lydia’s mind, that was plain to see.
‘Don’t look like that.’ She had caught their glance. ‘I know I sound mad, but I’m not. As a nurse I look after the living, I patch and mend and make better. Or I’m supposed to. But I didn’t, did I? I destroyed. I’m not worthy of the job any more, not after what I’ve done. So I’ll look after the dead and the dying instead.’
The girls waited for an explanation. ‘It’s simple,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ll train as ambulance crew. I understand they take on the most grisly of jobs.’
Daisy shuddered, remembering too vividly the sights she had seen only the other morning. Could Lydia really be intending to comb bomb sites for broken bodies and severed limbs?
‘You do know what it entails?’
‘I know. It’s ghastly, but that’s the point.’
‘And you think that somehow it will help you?’ Connie put in.
‘It will help me pay back what I’ve taken away. It may even help others. Families that have seen their loved ones destroyed. Like Willa’s family.’
Her decision, it seemed, was not for discussion. She turned abruptly and walked out of the room and they heard her thumping up the stairs, grief and determination marking her every step.
‘Well!’ Connie exclaimed.
‘I suppose she must do what feels right for her.’ Daisy envied the certainty. Lydia would go into action and gradually purge herself of this terrible stain, while she could only suffer a slow, gnawing remorse.
‘It seems a bit extreme. The injuries we’ve seen have been devastating enough. I don’t want to think how much worse an ambulance crew might have to face.’
Connie was still battling with the notion that anyone, even Lydia, would willingly embrace the horrors she was bound to encounter.
‘Everything is extreme at the moment.’ Daisy sounded exhausted. ‘And we haven’t had the funeral yet.’
Daisy went to bed that night, knowing she wouldn’t sleep. Lydia had chosen renunciation. The girl was giving up a job she loved, a job she did well, in the hope of finding redemption. A cleansing, a purging, after what had happened. If only she could do the same. If only she could unlive the last few days. Her mind kept coming back to Grayson. For all kinds of reasons, it had never been a good idea to get close to him. She’d always known she couldn’t give him her heart, not fully, and even if he’d accepted the little she could offer, what kind of future would they have had? They were from wholly different worlds and she would rather not imagine his mother’s reaction, tucked away in her comfortable flat in Pimlico, to a girl who was the wrong class, the wrong background, even the wrong skin colour.
Lydia’s words had reawakened the old uncertainties. Daisy had always felt as English as anyone around her, but what did she really know? Her mother had been English, that was certain, but her father? When she looked in the mirror, her dark hair and dark eyes, her almond skin, suggested a different story. None of that worried Grayson, she knew, but it would almost certainly worry his family. Her intense guilt over Willa reinforced an older, deeper feeling that Grayson and she were not meant for each other. Only bad things could come from a refusal to recognise it. And there was no longer a need for them to meet. Gerald must have collected his papers by now and be readying himself to leave. His departure to a new world meant the death of their marriage. So why not the death, too, of this difficult relationship with Grayson? As long as Mrs Oliver’s distraction worked, she would meet him tomorrow as arranged. Tuesday was the day before Willa’s funeral, and that seemed entirely fitting.
Every day, when he woke to the realisation of where he was, Gerald felt physically sick, as though someone had punched him squarely in the chest. Everything about living in these rooms, this house, this district, was depressing. Deeply depressing. The maze of mean little streets, the grey soot, the dirt. Even if he hadn’t been menaced by the fear of discovery, he would have had to get out of the place. He’d expected never to return here, had believed he’d left his history far behind. The day he’d joined the Indian Army as a raw recruit, the angels had sung to him. His parents had come to the station to see him on his way to Sandhurst, he remembered. He’d forbidden them to come any further than the London terminus and with good reason. He might be eighteen and wet behind the ears, but he was able to envisage only too well the reaction of senior officers to a Cockney tailor and his Cockney wife. He’d blenched at the thought of any meeting. Paddington was the nearest his parents would ever get to Sandhurst. Unbeknown to them, he’d already changed his name and was planning a final escape.
He’d written, of course, from time to time, but gradually as the weight of his studies increased and he’d felt the effort to succeed grow ever more difficult, his letters had dwindled to nothing. He’d paid them just one visit, a day that was forever engraved on his memory, the week before the posting to his first regiment in India. T
hey’d splashed out on high tea and invited the neighbours into the ‘best’ room, a cold, dank, unused parlour, to partake in their reflected glory. That was how he’d seen it then and he had winced with shame. Now it looked very different. Now, after his years of pretence, of deceit, of wickedness—yes, wickedness—he could see they were merely proud. The costly ham tea was a way of saying they thought he was wonderful. They’d always thought he was wonderful, scrimping year after year to send him to Hanbury, listening attentively to any small remark he might vouchsafe during those wretched holidays spent in Spitalfields. He could never wait to get back to school, just as he couldn’t wait that day to return to Sandhurst, to his new-found family of brother officers. And then to India, the final break with his embarrassing origins and the dreary streets in which he’d come of age.
It was another irony, poetic justice perhaps, that he’d ended back on those very same streets. He had become Jack Minns again. Only this time without the parents who had worked to give him his new life, a life that had collapsed irrevocably. In his trouble, he’d returned to them. Yet one more irony. He’d trudged across Europe, desperate for food and shelter, lying and stealing his way from country to country, taking any job that offered, anything that would buy bread, cheese, a drink of some kind to drown the wretchedness. Then at last those white cliffs soaring before him and his heart lifting with them. At last, home. He was home and soon he would walk the familiar pavements. But it was a dream that turned to nightmare, as so much of his life had. Instead of the joyous homecoming, he’d faced a landscape laid to waste and two heaps of newly turned earth in Tower Hamlets Cemetery. Unmarked, unloved, pauper graves.
But this morning was different. The sun was shining and the wind had dropped. He peered through the streaked window on to the street below. It was the first real day of spring, and the first of his new life. He strode over to the mantelpiece and took down Daisy’s letter. He must have done that a dozen times in the last few days, reading her note over and over again, just in case the words might have changed. He supposed it was because he couldn’t quite believe his impossible quest had become possible. But it had, and the words he read were always the same. Whenever he thought of the liberty they promised, it was difficult to suppress a shout of elation, difficult to stop himself from dancing on the spot.
The Nurse's War Page 17
