by Jane Grant
‘I get that sort of thing about tractors,’ said Don feeling out of it.
He then began to explain about Members and Non-Members at the Show. ‘Rhona and I of course will go through the Members’ Gate, but you two will have to queue with the rabble.’
‘But look ‒’ protested Teddy, ‘I put this tie on on purpose to pass as a farmer. I thought it most bucolic, don’t you?’
I glanced back at it, it had a pattern of dancing lambs on a bright green background. ‘Teddy ‒ where on earth did you get that?’
‘Oh, I saw it in a window. I thought it was just the thing for today. Don’t you like it, Rhona?’
‘It’s horrible,’ said Rhona.
We walked over miles of muddy fields to where the Show began, with marquees on each side of the churned-up road, in which retailers entertained their farmer customers with beer and sandwiches. We stopped in front of a beautiful display of agricultural machines in red, blue and orange.
Don met some friends, and they congregated round the machinery with interested remarks about output per hour, fuel consumption, and labour saving. Teddy and Rhona went off to the Grand Ring to watch the Parade and the Sheepdog Trials, and I wondered if all the technical information I was hearing would be as incomprehensible to me in a couple of years as it was now.
We all met in the tent of the Chief Seed Merchant, and ate ham sandwiches. Don said he was going to get the Old Man to buy one of the new Hayter Cutters, it would cut the labour force in half. Teddy asked did he mean this literally? Don did not think this funny, but Rhona and I were incapacitated with mirth.
Rhona announced that old Mr Borley had been in and out of all the tents like a yo-yo, and was now weaving about the field full of beer.
‘Now would be the time,’ said Don, ‘to see if I could offload that old disc harrow on to him.’
‘If you wait long enough he’ll think you’re selling him two for the price of one,’ contributed Teddy.
A beautiful Suffolk Punch carthorse went by from the Show Ring, his coat shining and his mane knotted with coloured ribbon.
‘Oh, Don!’ I cried. ‘Can’t we have one of those?’
‘Cost you a fiver a week in hay,’ said Don. Relenting, he pressed my hand and said, ‘They are lovely. I like them too.’
We separated again, Don and I were going to look at the display of flowers, and Teddy and Rhona were going to the Dog Show. ‘I hope you’ve got a Vet’s Certificate of Good Health,’ said Rhona as they walked off, ‘you have to show it at the door.’
‘I can always forge one,’ said Teddy. We’re all in the same racket.’
At the end of the day Don and I walked back towards the car. My ankles were aching and my nose was sunburnt; when I shut my eyes I saw a blur of moving figures and vivid machinery.
Everyone we met and talked to had a cheerful air and a fresh open face. There was a smell of hot grass, canvas and summer flowers.
The sun was setting in a pinky sky as we walked over the field, Don’s large hand enveloping mine. I felt protected and serene.
My final day of nursing had come at last. It seemed impossible that this really was the end, and that in a month I should be married and a farmer’s wife.
It was a Thursday, and as I arrived on the ward I heard Maitland telling Fred off for putting on a glove pig instead of doing the dressings first. We had a fantastic list even for an Orthopaedic Day; the morning list took us well into the afternoon, and the afternoon list went on well into the evening.
There was a minor crisis when Camden’s gloves weren’t sterilized in time for him to start the first case, and another when Theatre II had run out of Morley’s special atraumatic needles.
Maitland insisted on my going to lunch, while she self-righteously refused to have any, with the result that she felt faint in the middle of a laminectomy, and her place had to be taken by Dudley. As Camden was doing the operation, this grieved her no little.
We were down to the manipulations before I had time to hurry up to the office to see how Maitland was. Morley came out of the Surgeons’ Dressing-room and accosted me.
‘I’m so sorry you’re leaving, Sister. I do hope you get on well.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, taken aback, as I had no idea that Morley knew I existed, let alone that I was leaving.
‘I hear you’re getting married. All the very best.’
Very different was my parting from Camden. I wished him luck in his new job.
‘Well, it’s a step up, I suppose. Let’s hope I can keep my nose clean.’
‘You’ve always managed that,’ I said with emphasis.
He smiled. ‘How’s the child?’
‘Oh, I think coming to the surface slowly.’
‘She’s a sweet child. A pity it couldn’t work out. I hope she’ll be happy. D’you think Teddy will be the lucky man?’
I shrugged. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time for both of them.’
‘Wait till you’re my age, my dear,’ he said rather sadly. ‘There isn’t plenty of time then.’
He gave me a quick kiss and pressed my hand.
Maitland and I said polite goodbyes, and I went down to the Sisters’ sitting-room. Sadd was just coming out.
‘I was coming to look for you, Jane.’
‘You didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye?’
‘We will miss you. I’m so looking forward to the wedding. You’ll be a lovely bride, you know, in your ivory lace.’
‘I shall miss you too. You’ve been so kind.’
Angela was sitting reading a fashion magazine. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it must be nice to know you finally made it. With any luck I’ve a rent-payer lined up too. In Harley Street.’
Mary followed me into my room, and I began rather sadly to check through the various pieces of my uniform.
‘Five dresses.’
‘Five,’ agreed Mary.
‘Six caps.’
‘Six.’
‘Eighteen aprons.’
‘Seventeen, and one minus the bib from the laundry. Say seventeen and a half.’
‘Eight cuffs.’
‘Eight cuffs.’
‘Six collars.’
‘Sorry ‒ I can only find five.’
Sadd looked in the door. ‘I think Don’s just driven up.’
‘Oh good!’ I hurriedly brushed my hair. ‘See you on Saturday,’ I said to Mary. ‘For your final fitting.’
‘I think that brocade’s the best choice, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you’ll be able to wear it afterwards.’
I picked up my bag from the dressing-table. Underneath it was my one comfortable collar. It was still torn.
Preview chapter: A Country Life
Chapter 1
The first time I went to Rome was with my friend Mary. We had just passed our final exams at St. Bernard’s, and were State Registered Nurses; so, to celebrate, we were having a special holiday.
Every man has his Achilles heel; even Napoleon had Waterloo. With Mary it was trains. In all the numerous crises of her life there was always one factor in common ‒ a missed train. She arrived two hours late on one occasion at training school, and red of face and flustered, was ushered in to tea by a shocked Sister Tutor, and when everyone else had been signed for and docketed, and the after tea announcements had been made, a glassy voice suggested, ‘Perhaps Nurse Ross would be good enough to report to my office.’
Her days off had always been a nightmare to her friends. She would arrive hysterical with a list of watertight excuses ‒ the bus had broken down ‒ the taxi’s big end went ‒ the signal got jammed. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ she would wail ‒ but I never really believed this till the time of our trip to Rome.
I made careful arrangements. Mary was to stay with us for the weekend before our departure; I would put the clocks forward an hour, and I would make certain that everything was prepared overnight, all packing done and garments laid out, passports and small change in readiness.
&nb
sp; One detail, however, I left to Mary. When we made our arrangements for the holiday Mary had been on night duty, and I was at the E.N.T. unit at Lyeford. So it had been natural enough for Mary to book the tickets at the travel agents’ branch in the City.
A week before we were due to set off she rang me up to say the tickets had not arrived.
‘What d’you mean they haven’t arrived?’
‘Well ‒ the thing was the man I booked through appears to have eloped. But they say he sent our reservations to the main office.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, the person who was dealing with them at the main office has just got mumps. So they’ve got to check through the files.’
‘Can’t you go there and look yourself?’
‘Well, I was going this afternoon. But I think they may be closed.’
‘Mary! For heaven’s sake ring them up and put pressure on. Threaten to sue or something! This time next week we’re supposed to be there.’
Later she rang up full of reassurance. The tickets would be posted to her home address, and Mary had rung up her mother, who would bring them to Charing Cross in good time for the boat train, on Monday.
We caught the London train and got as far as Liverpool Street without incident. In fact we were in such good time that we dawdled at the kiosk, arguing about what kind of sweets we would take with us, eventually deciding on plain chocolate, as being the safest bet in case it was rough on the boat.
We then got on the District Railway for Charing Cross, and our first panic started, as the train for no apparent reason sat and reflected at Aldgate for what seemed like hours. When at last it reached Charing Cross, we ran all the way to the platform with our suitcases and arrived at the barrier gasping to see the boat train with doors banging and engine hissing, obviously on the point of leaving. There was no sign of Mrs. Ross and the tickets.
‘I suppose I did say Charing Cross and not Victoria?’ faltered Mary.
We quartered the horizon, searching for any sort of middle-aged woman. None of them were Mrs. Ross. More doors slammed, the guard looked at his watch, the porters pulled the trolleys away. We had quite given up hope when a lone figure, small, red-faced and gasping, appeared.
In unison with the guard’s whistle, as we leaned out of the carriage window, we heard her croak breathlessly, ‘So sorry, there was a bus strike. Unofficial,’ she shouted, as the train pulled out.
I looked at Mary. ‘It must run in the family,’ I said bitterly.
We had got half-way to Dover before we were able to size up our travelling companions.
Opposite us were two girls of about our age; quiet-looking, except that one had the most unlikely blonde hair, obviously recently executed for the holiday. She was clutching a plastic box with an orchid in it ‒ just the thing, I reflected, that she needed on a long journey. After wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, she put the plastic box on the rack and remarked to her companion, ‘Wasn’t it sweet of him?’
She then sat down, sniffing, and catching my eye, smiled doubtfully and remarked, making an evident effort, ‘I wonder how long the journey will take.’
‘Too long,’ I replied. That seemed the end of that subject of conversation. After a moment Mary tried again with ‘We nearly missed the train,’ on which the other girl commented, ‘Oh dear, how awful!’
The token sentences having been exchanged, we could then give up and talk to each other. By the time we reached Dover, however, Mary and I were regretting that we had pooh-poohed this couple of nice English girls, who had had the forethought to bring a good supply of sandwiches. We were already starving, and they had enough food for an army, but when they politely offered us a sandwich, out of shame we refused. Our hearts sank at the prospect of some hours ahead without a bite, but we consoled ourselves with the thought that we could get food on the boat. In the meantime we ate chocolate.
We did not see the girls on the boat; they were with the rival travel agents, and there was quite a large party under the care of a courier with whom they presumably foregathered. It being early in the year, there were no other tourists in our party who were bound for Rome.
The Channel was not particularly rough. All the same, we did not somehow feel inclined for food after all that chocolate.
At Calais we got on to a rather dirty train with a strong smell of garlic. Strangely enough, the girls now reappeared and got into our carriage. Both sides were slightly embarrassed at this re-encounter. After brief smiles, each started a conversation at the same moment.
‘Have you been abroad before?’
‘This isn’t a very nice train.’
‘Very industrial sidings.’
‘I don’t think much of the scenery, do you?’
The sporadic attempts at communication were followed by rather gloomy silences, on our side at any rate, for we were now once more attacked by violent pangs of hunger.
The sandwiches were produced, and we tried not to eye them wolfishly. They were offered, and with suitable protests accepted. We staggered on with the conversation, which remained firmly anchored in small talk. When we parted at Rome, the bleached hair girl still clutching her orchid, we made tepid and false promises to look each other up.
It had been a horrible and seemingly endless journey, during which we had dozed for brief periods uncomfortably, and woken stiff and with aching necks. Dirty, exhausted, and violently hungry, we arrived at the Rome Terminale at midnight. We had come half-way across Europe to see Roman remains, and glassy-eyed, we took in a vast, extremely modern station which was as packed and full of life at midnight as Liverpool Street in the rush hour. We noted the brilliant light and feverish activity; a party of troops entraining, police with revolvers in their belts; and heard the rapid Italian talk. In the midst of it all we stood on the platform apparently abandoned; there was no sign of anyone to meet us, and we had no idea how to proceed.
The rival party were being collected and counted with their luggage by a pallid courier. ‘Shall we ask him?’ said Mary.
We did not much want to ask him. We had unfortunately overheard his conversation with our courier at Calais: ‘Have you seen an old girl in a plastic mac and umbrella, old man?’
‘They’ve all got plastic macs and umbrellas.’
‘How can somebody get lost from the Customs to the platform?’
However, it was clear that the other party and their courier were about to depart, and our hearts failed us at the thought of being completely abandoned to the troops and the hurrying Italians.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, clutching the courier’s arm, ‘but there’s no one to meet us. Where do we go?’
He was quite kind. We could see in his eyes the thought, ‘Let’s get this over and get to bed for heaven’s sake.’ But he put us into a taxi, and as we had no small Italian money, only notes of huge denominations, he paid it for us and told the man where to go. We asked him about tipping, and he said he had included a tip. We arranged with him that he should be repaid by our travel agency, and he smiled and said that would be okay.
We arrived at a small hotel not far from the station. There was a middle-aged, pleasant man at the desk, who took our arrival at that hour quite as a matter of course, and showed us to our room, in which there were a couple of beds, a bidet and a hand basin. We noticed the somewhat musty smell of food and confined air which we were later to recognize as typical of small Italian hotels. Having washed some of the grime off, we fell into bed.
When we woke up next morning, we noted the telephone between the beds, and rather grandly, I rang up for breakfast.
A young Italian arrived with a tray and a brilliant smile. He drew the curtains and opened the shutters, moved the table into a more convenient position, smiled again on us both separately, and asked: ‘Is anything else, Signora? Signora?’
No thank you, we said, that would be fine, there was nothing else. In spite of this he seemed inclined to linger, smiling again, adjusting chairs and setting the curtain straight. We stared
uncomprehendingly, and when he could think of nothing else to do, he backed out, bowing, not turning his back in the royal presence.
We fell to on our breakfast. It was delicious, but not very satisfying, consisting of two rolls, two slices of crisp bread, two pieces of currant bread, with butter and cherry jam, as well as coffee. It was interrupted when we looked up with our mouths full to see three smiling workmen hanging on to a scaffold opposite, at the level of our window, where they were supposed to be building a garage.
‘Who are they leering at?’ asked Mary.
‘Perhaps it’s someone they know, one of the maids,’ I suggested.
When we realized this blatant ogling was intended for us we were rather overcome, and after a while Mary got up and drew the curtains.
We got up and walked out; the streets, the people, the shops, the buildings, all being of immense interest to us. After a while, however, our hunger returned, and we began looking into the windows of restaurants. In one small café we saw displayed some crusty rolls with veal slices inside them. We paused, and began to examine our money and to count out the price of the rolls. We were just about to go in and buy them when a large Italian who looked like a cartoon character, with a bald head fringed with black greasy hair and a large black moustache, appeared behind them, wielding a fly swatter. This he flicked round the window, as we would go dusting with a feather duster, eventually hitting and slaying several bluebottles which had landed on one of the rolls. He had timed his appearance at just the wrong moment; a second or two later we should have been his customers. Now, looking at each other, we began to recall what we had heard of the laxity of Italian food laws.
Directed by some inner sense, we arrived at the Food Market. This was full of stalls containing Italian cheeses; there was also fish, dried and sweating, and live and walking snails.
‘Well, you can’t have them any fresher,’ remarked Mary.
The streets had quantities of priests and nuns, like English streets have housewives, and we accosted one priest, using our Italian phrase book, hoping he would understand us, and asked the way to the Vatican. He replied in a Bronx accent, “Where d’you wanna go?’
