The Nurse's War

by Merryn Allingham

  But her excitement shrivelled as quickly as it had sprung to life. How on earth was she to reach the beam? It was at least fifteen feet above her head, even while standing on the tomb. She needed a rope, a rope that would catch on to the hook. She wondered if she was still agile enough to climb. If practice was all, she would shin to the top in seconds. How many times had she done that as a child? A rope had been their escape route from the orphanage at Eden House. One of them keeping cavey, while the other threw a rope into the branches of a tree which grew on Cobb Street, just outside the perimeter wall. They would haul themselves up and over. It was one of the few times she’d felt any sense of camaraderie at the orphanage. Whoever went over the wall would come back with food for those left behind—food that had been thrown out, food that had been begged, sometimes food stolen from an unwary stallholder. But she’d been ten years old then, and there had been a solid brick wall to guide her feet upwards.

  She scolded herself for her silliness. Here she was fantasising about climbing a rope when there was not even a length of string. Unless … She peeled off her cape, then her starched pinafore and, after a few minutes’ hesitation, her dress and petticoat. Her skin was stiff with cold and she found herself shivering uncontrollably in what was left of her thin cotton underwear. Get on with it, she urged herself, or you’ll freeze to the spot and become an ice statue. She made each item of clothing into rolls, then twisted them into long sausages. Each sausage was tied, one to another. She stood back and surveyed what she could see of her handiwork. She had her makeshift rope, though whether it would reach far enough, she had no idea. The only way she would find out was to try. The rope had to catch on to the hook so she tied a large loop in the top of the petticoat and clambered back onto the tomb. Experimentally, she threw the rope upwards. It fell to her feet. She tried again, and then again and again for minutes on end, until her arms throbbed and her shoulders were contorted with pain. It wasn’t going to work, she thought dejectedly. The loop she’d tied could get no purchase on the hook. Idly, she turned the rope upside down. Before she gave in, she would try throwing it, cape upwards. Her first throw and she heard a clinking sound. She tugged. The rope was firm! The chain that fastened her cape, she realised, had miraculously fallen over the hook and was keeping the rope in the air.

  But would it hold her weight? She was light, very light, but she was taking a dreadful risk. She could almost hear the cloth splitting as the chain was torn from its surrounding cape. She would fall then, straight down onto the sarcophagus or plummet beyond to the stone-flagged floor. It might mean a quick death but equally an agonising injury. She had to try though. She took off her shoes and stockings and tied one shoe to each end of the hosiery and hung them round her neck. She needed her feet bare if she were to have any chance of getting to the top of the rope. She reached up and took a small jump, her hands clutching on to the material she had rolled and twisted. Then her naked feet clamped themselves around the flimsy petticoat and she began to haul herself up towards the stripes of her nurses’ frock. One hand after another, knees bending and straightening, feet following, as she inched her way upwards. She must be over halfway now, she thought, and paused before she once more reached up. This time she felt the wool of her cape and knew there could only be a few feet to go.

  Then she heard the noise, very close, just above her head. A splitting noise. It was the chain pulling away from the cloth. It had had enough. As she’d climbed higher, the strain on it had grown greater and it was now shredding. She did not dare to look down at what awaited her, but fixed her eyes above. In the dim light coming from the window, she could see the hook and the bar which supported it. Just one, two more lunges and she should be there. The splitting sounded louder. She was exhausted, her arms had ceased to feel like a part of her body, her legs in pain, her feet twingeing with cramp and cold. With a huge effort, she grabbed another piece of cape and heaved herself up again. In desperation one of her hands shot out and grabbed for the beam. Then she was clasping it with both hands. She hung there suspended in mid-air with the cloak hanging by a thread beside her. The breath had been knocked from her by the effort, but she dared not pause. There was no time to wait to feel better. There was no way she would feel better until she was sitting on that beam. Again she pushed herself up, the sinews in her arms rigid and tearing. One knee was on the wood. The beam was wider than she’d thought, wide enough to kneel comfortably. And then she was there, her head bent, her breath coming in short gasps. Beneath her, the tomb was barely distinguishable and the floor had vanished into obscurity. Had she really climbed that distance? Euphoric barely described how she felt.

  But hard reality soon replaced euphoria. As soon as her breathing returned to normal, she manoeuvred herself into a standing position and forced her tired arms to reach up again, but this time to the ceiling. Its central section was shaped like a dome and she was sure there would be a patch that would have only a light covering of plaster. That was the spot she must find. Her knuckles knocked at the plasterwork. It sounded ominously solid. Inch by inch, she knocked a circle around the dome but always with the same result. There was no place that was hollow. The roof must have been concreted over from the outside and there was no way out. She was crushed, despairing. To have got so far … and now she was stranded. Not even a cold floor for a final resting place. All she could do was sit hunched on this beam until drifting into sleep, she lost her balance and fell to her death.

  Very soon Grayson would die too, just a few miles away. She tried valiantly to fight back the tears. Sweetman would be on his way to Pitt House by now. She couldn’t see her watch, but she sensed it must be close to eleven o’clock. He would be driving northwards, his suitcase collected and ready for his getaway. A getaway that would leave a trail of death behind. She sat with her eyes closed, squeezed tightly to prevent the tears that constantly welled. When she opened them at last, she noticed that the light had subtly changed. It seemed to have become a very little brighter. She peered across at the window. It had been a chilly day and the sky had remained grey and clouded throughout. Now, though, a moon was shining somewhere in the sky and touching the narrow casement with its silver.

  She looked at the window again. It had to be too small to squeeze through, even if she were able to open it. On all fours she crawled along the beam towards it. The panes of glass were wet. It must have been raining and raining hard, and a sliver of moonlight was glancing off the small drops of water and making them dance. There was no catch to the window but even if there had been, it was unlikely to work after all these years. She looked again, trying to measure the space in her mind. Just maybe she could fit herself through. It was a long shot, but what had she to lose? She crawled backwards to where she’d been kneeling and pulled up her improvised rope. If she ever got out of this place of death, she would need her clothes. Then back to the window, dragging the clothes behind her. Very carefully, she wrapped the cape around her hand and punched at the window. The glass was tough and she had to punch hard several times before the first crack appeared. She kept on punching while the cracks multiplied, until finally she had reduced the glass to shards, which fell one by one into the void below.

  The night air hit her full in the face and she gulped it down in large breaths. It gave her a new strength. A new determination. The living world was out there and within her reach. In the moonlight, she could see a ledge just below the window and, beyond that, she thought she could make out a tangle of bushes marching into the distance. She threw her clothes down and heard them land very softly some way below. Hopefully that meant there was a bush to break her fall, since she would have to drop from a considerable height. Climbing down a steep, smooth wall, which lacked visible handholds, was an impossibility. She managed to scrunch into a small ball and started to feed herself through the window—leg, arm, head. There was barely space and her body scraped and stuck against the iron frame. Jagged pieces of glass still lined its edges and they caught at her bare skin mercilessly. She
knew she was bleeding, but she couldn’t let it deter her. She was almost there. Her second arm was free now and she reached down for the ledge with both hands, at the same time wrenching the rest of her body through the narrow space. Then she was hanging on to the ledge with both hands, her legs swinging free in the cold night air.

  She couldn’t see what lay immediately below. For all she knew, an unforgiving monument or thrusting gravestone could spell danger, but she had to believe she would be all right. She closed her eyes and let go. The breath was once more punched from her body as she plummeted downwards, and landed in the middle of a large bush. It took her some minutes before she could disentangle herself, but once she was standing on the grass, she took stock. Her neck throbbed, her arms and legs were cut and bruised and her face trickled with blood, but she was still in one piece. The moon was riding clear and a few yards away her white starched pinafore shone brightly in its light. She retrieved a handkerchief from its pocket and wiped away as much of the blood as she could.

  It was difficult to dress. Her hands were so cold that they fidgeted and fumbled with the buttonholes and studs of her nurse’s uniform. But at last she was ready and wrapped what was left of the cape around her shoulders. The rain had stopped but it was still unseasonably cold. She had no idea where she was, other than in a cemetery. An overgrown cemetery at that, and without an evident pathway. In the crystalline light, she saw she had been very lucky. A mass of gravestones surrounded her, scattered at random as though thrown down by a giant hand. Their lichened heads poked through tall grass and wild saplings, whose leaves seemed to whisper angrily at her intrusion. And everywhere ink black shadows and a mountain of glistening vegetation. She stood for a moment and listened. Soft rustlings filled the undergrowth, and she took some comfort that other living creatures were near.

  With difficulty, she made her way around the mausoleum walls to what she judged must be the front. Surely there would be a path leading to its door. There was. It was a meagre strip of gravel but it had to go somewhere, she reasoned, and could only hope it was to the entrance. She began to walk as fast as she dared along the badly pitted ribbon of shingle. Wherever she looked, there were more and more graves and most of them abandoned, their drunken headstones forming a battered army on the march. She tried not to think about them, tried to block from her mind their lowering shapes and focus on the path ahead. But the place was frightening. Every so often a towering angel or crucifix hidden in shadows would rise from the dark to terrify. And somewhere in the night, an owl hooted.

  She hurried on, skirting fallen branches and patches of rubble that here and there blocked the path. While the moon floated free, her progress was steady, but then the sky began to haze and, quite suddenly, the moon was lost and the world turned black. It was so dark that she could no longer see her hands. She was forced into a shuffle, her feet constantly searching for the path. Yet she had to go faster. If she continued to move at this snail’s pace, she would never get out. And she must, she must get to a telephone. In frustration, she began to walk too swiftly, blundering ahead in the dark, until out of nowhere she lost the path. She felt grass beneath her feet, and tried to turn back in the direction she thought she’d come, but the pathway eluded her. She turned again and now she was thoroughly confused. Her foot hung in the air ready for another step, when the moon chose that moment to swim from out of its basket of cloud and she could see again. Down into an abyss. She had been about to walk into an abyss. It was an underground city, a circle of small houses each with its own door and lintel, and dug at least twenty feet deep into the ground. Beside each door was a carved scroll, a roll call of the inhabitants, she imagined. She stood on the grass precipice and looked across the chasm. A flight of stairs opposite led down to this city of the dead, but it wasn’t the stairs she would have used. One more step would have plunged her downwards onto stone flags. While the moon still shone, she must hurry and find the path again.

  It was only feet away, but she could have cast around forever in the dark without finding it. She followed it as quickly as she could, twisting and turning, in and out of bushes, up and down steps. The path was passing again beneath an avenue of dark trees, this time so dark that not even bright moonlight could penetrate. Plunged once more into blackness, she stumbled and fell amid a heap of rubble. A tomb had broken open and its contents spilled across the path; she had fallen over part of a shattered headstone. She grasped a chunk of its stone to haul herself upwards and a small piece, sheared from the memorial, came away in her hand. She felt it round and smooth with a trace of decoration on one side, and something made her keep hold of it. Her body was hurting just about everywhere, but she dragged herself to her feet, and once more crept forward until she found her way back into the moonlight.

  The path was wider here. It must mean she was nearing the entrance. Thank God. Then down another flight of steps, beneath another clump of overhanging trees, and she emerged into a semi-circular space, a lodge guarding its one straight side. The cemetery was very old, that was obvious, and this had been a space for horse-drawn carriages to turn. A Victorian cemetery then, but where? She walked to the barred gate and read the sign. Highgate Cemetery. So she had come hardly any distance from the safe house. More importantly, she was only a few miles from where Grayson was waiting with Chandan Patel. A few miles from where he was about to face Sweetman’s gun. She must get to him.

  The gate was locked but that was the least of her problems this night. If she could escape a stone prison, she could get over an iron gate. Dropping down on the other side, she turned up the narrow road to her left. It was a steep hill and her exhausted body made hard work of it, but at its top, the sight of a red telephone box made her heart glow. She would ask the operator to put her through to Pitt House. Even now, she had time to warn Grayson that Sweetman was on his way. But when she reached the box, she found its glass shattered and the black Bakelite that had once been a telephone in pieces on the floor. A stray bomb had done its job. The glow vanished and her heart felt pinched. She must go on, find another telephone.

  She was on a main road now, though there was little traffic so late at night. A white enamel sign above her head announced that this was Hampstead Lane. Eventually, it must lead to Hampstead village and she would follow it until she found a telephone. She started out, half walking, half running, and had travelled at least a mile before she came to another red box. A woman was talking animatedly into the receiver. Daisy sent up a prayer of thanks—this one was working. She knocked at one of the small panes and the woman turned her head and frowned. Daisy mimed using the phone, but the woman turned her back.

  This was too urgent for manners, she decided. She opened the door to the box and the woman abruptly broke off her conversation.

  ‘Well, really!’

  ‘Please, this is an emergency. I must use the phone.’ She hoped her uniform might help her plea. The woman looked her up and down scathingly, and she realised she must seem no better than a tramp.

  ‘Then find another phone box.’ The woman turned her back again.

  ‘There isn’t one.’ A note of panic had crept into Daisy’s voice.

  ‘Of course, there is. There’s one further down the road. Now let me finish my conversation.’

  ‘How far down the road?’ she persisted.

  ‘I have no idea.’ The woman slammed the door shut.

  Daisy immediately pulled it open, but the woman grabbed the door from inside and held on to it. A tug of war ensued which would have been comic, if it had not been so desperate.

  ‘Please, you must help me.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to. Go away.’

  ‘Do you know where Pitt House is?’ It might be easier to find the house than another telephone box. ‘Is it near?’

  ‘Keep following the road,’ the woman snapped. ‘Turn right at Sandy Lane, then left. Now go away.’

  Daisy went away. She blessed the moonlight. Without it, she would stand little chance o
f finding her way. The streets were unfamiliar and she had no idea of the house she was looking for. In the blackout she would soon have become lost. She was running again now, past substantial properties on both sides of the road, glancing briefly at their name boards as she ran. The woman could be wrong. Pitt House could be any one of these. But she must go faster. With a last great effort, she picked up her pace. Along the road and turn right. No sign of the house here. Then turn left. Nearly dead with fatigue, she was forced to drop down into a walk. On and on, house after house, but never the right one. She almost missed it when she got there, for a laurel hedge had grown across the discreet board, its gold lettering faded by the weather. But this was it. This was Pitt House. She glimpsed lights shining in the distance. A long driveway led up to the house, winding its way through clumps of trees. If she never saw another tree, Daisy thought, she wouldn’t mind. She had no idea what she would find at the end of the drive and walked as quietly as she could, keeping to its shadowed edge and hoping the crunch of gravel would not signal her arrival. She could see the roof of the house now and then the windows, lit and welcoming. But welcoming to whom?

  In the shadows of the last clump of trees, she came on the car. It was unpretentious, slightly shabby. It seemed not to belong here. She stole up to it and felt the bonnet. It was still warm. She peered through the windows. A battered leather suitcase sat on the back seat. It was Sweetman’s car, it had to be. He was here and she was too late.

  Then she heard the voices and ducked back into the shadows. A man was at the entrance to the house, his feet scraping noisily at the gravel. She came out of hiding and stared at his back. She knew the jacket he was wearing. It was Mike Corrigan’s. She wasn’t too late. The man was waving a pass at the guards and, when they seemed reluctant to let him through, he tried to push past.