I have always loved people and the patients fascinated me. One of them, Mrs M–, was a very fat woman and she had been very ill after a serious operation. Her husband being a flower-seller, her bed was always surrounded by the most choice and costly flowers and was the envy of all the other patients in the ward. But Mrs M–, who was on a milk diet, did not even notice them. She had a craving for some shrimps and the only thing which interested her was how to get them. ‘Here, nursie dear,’ she said to me coaxingly one evening, ‘I’ll give you all these bloody blooms if you’ll bring me a few shrimps – just half a dozen, love. I’ve asked Albert again and again. Every time he comes in here with these bleeding flowers I say I don’t want blooms but shrimps. But he’s afraid of Sister. You aren’t, are you, love?’
I was – I was petrified of her. Every time she approached I became fumble-fisted. Mrs M– continued to plead with me. She must have the shrimps, nothing else would do, as to the flowers she hated them. ‘Make me feel like a bleeding corpse already,’ she complained. The poor little husband, a perky Cockney, was in the depths of gloom at her attitude. She would not speak to him.
‘Tell ’er I daren’t bring the shrimps, nurse,’ he begged. ‘She don’t believe me.’
Later, outside the ward, I came upon him weeping unashamedly. ‘Sister says she’s very bad,’ he sobbed. ‘She’s never bin ill in all our married life. Nurse, don’t you think she could have the shrimps – if she’s got to go – why shouldn’t she have what she wants?’
I knew perfectly well that she should not have anything but the diet prescribed by the doctors, but if she were going to die as her husband said, why shouldn’t she have them? Condemned men, in fiction and in fact, are allowed to choose their last meal. I could not bear his pleading eyes – like those of a retriever dog. ‘It’s up to you,’ I told him. ‘If you bring them while I’m there I shall pretend I’ve only one good eye and that one, like Nelson’s, will be on the other side. But there’s always Sister – she has two excellent eyes.’
‘I’ll bring them to-night if I can get ’em. It’ll give me something to do finding ’em for ’er.’ He had brightened perceptibly as he hurried off.
Nurses are supposed to keep out of sight during visiting hours, but when Albert was leaving that evening he gave me a look which was unmistakable.
I lay awake all night worrying about Mrs M– and her shrimps. Supposing when I arrived at the hospital next morning she had died in agony? I should have helped kill her – but, on the other hand, if she were dying anyway, she would at least have had the shrimps which she craved. But when I crept nervously into the ward on duty next morning Mrs M– was propped up in bed as usual. ‘I’m better, love,’ she called, ‘thanks to your nursing. Hear that, Sister? It was her that done the trick. She’s the one!’ and she winked knowingly and broadly at me. ‘I don’t know what has done it,’ said Sister, ‘but you are better.’
‘So you got them?’ I said later.
‘Can you take away the shells?’ she whispered, thrusting a fishy-smelling brown paper into my hands. I put it in the pocket of my apron but it looked conspicuous, and I was obliged to sidle out of the ward with the bulge hidden by a towel draped over my arm, praying that Sister would not call me. Mrs M– continued to improve, and Albert brought me the most wonderful flowers. When I told a friend, Mr Rock Carling, the surgeon [now Sir Ernest Rock Carling], about the shrimps, he was very amused and said that the surgeon was always in the wrong – if the patient had died from the shrimps the surgeon would have been blamed for an unsuccessful operation, and had she died without having had them the husband would have blamed him for depriving her of her last wish, while now that she was recovering the surgeon got no credit for her recovery – it all went to the shrimps!
Here I had my first experience of a death-bed. One patient was screened off in the ward, and I knew from the nurses and other patients that she was dying. Sister told me to sit by her and swab her mouth occasionally and moisten her lips. She was quite young and she was not dying easily. I found it so agonizing to have to watch her, that when Sister returned, she found me in tears. ‘If you are to be of any use as a nurse you’ll have to learn self-control. Never show any emotion at all. It’s far better for the patient that you are detached, impersonal, and concerned only with your job.’
‘But she’s dying,’ I said, ‘and she’s not much older than I am.’
‘Then help her to die comfortably – that’s your concern,’ she retorted. And so I sat there for hours watching this grey-faced young woman dying all alone in a crowded hospital ward, and for the first time I really began to think about life and death.
I liked that Sister; strict and severe, she nevertheless taught me some sort of discipline in the short time I worked under her, and I have been grateful to her ever since.
At St Luke’s Hospital, Chelsea, where I was later sent as a relief, I had very different work given me. Sister Griffiths [now Matron of St Luke’s] was sorry for the VADs! She knew that they usually got all the dirty jobs and she allowed me to help with the flowers and the food, and make myself generally useful in the ward. She taught me how to give blanket-baths and how to arrange pillows to give the maximum comfort and support in the various cases. I liked this hospital very much. Being in Chelsea and so near my home I was able to put in much longer hours than the scheduled ones. I did not get at all tired from standing all day, being accustomed to standing at my easel. I loved nursing, and resolved to try to get accepted for training to become a State Registered nurse.
It was fun to exchange experiences with all the other VADs at the FAP. The ones we considered the luckiest were those who had been sent to the Children’s Hospital adjoining the FAP, the Victoria. Miss White, the lady almoner, was delightful to us all. Most children’s hospitals had evacuated from London, and the Victoria had not all its beds in use so that it was always busy with small out-patients.
Getting home in the black-out was always an adventure. Sometimes I would bump into a party of revellers, their voices and laughter being the only warning of their imminent approach, and too late I would come up against a body abruptly, apologize, as they did, exchange good-nights and a little chaff, and continue on my Stygian way with a glow of warmth when those encountered had been charming enough to offer to see me home. The darkness and the sand-bagged entrances to houses were kind to lovers. Mrs Freeth was indignant one evening when she came upon a couple in what she called a compromising situation in my area amongst the sand-bags. But the man was in khaki and so she excused him, she said.
Two young Germans came round from the Town Hall taking a kind of census of the occupants of every house. We thought this a bit much – but they were refugees and pathetically anxious to do their bit for the country which had given them asylum. The girl was fair and charming and told me that she wanted to get into one of the women’s Services. The young man said that if he could not be accepted for the army he would try to get into munitions or the Fire Service. I felt sorry for the anomaly of their position. Like Ruth they were frightened and insecure. Ruth herself was rapidly becoming more and more desperate and Mrs Freeth more and more adept at putting her off on the telephone.
On September 4th aliens who stayed in England had to report to the police, and I accompanied Ruth there because she was quite hysterical. People were already beginning to look askance at all their German or Austrian friends and several boys in the street had shouted ‘German sausage’ at poor Vicki. I was amused to read in The Times during September an impassioned plea for the Dachshund who had been singled out in the 1914-18 war as being symbolically Teutonic. The Great Queen, after whom my Victoria had been named, had loved them and had had some sent to her after her marriage. The Mr Murray who made this plea rightly pointed out that both the Great Dane and the Alsatian were far more German in origin than the comical and obstinate but lovable Dachshund.
All this time the bombardment of Warsaw was continuing without respite, and listening to the anguish of that city as r
elayed on the radio gave some grim reality to the now endless practices in heavy rescue for which we nurses often acted as casualties. We were lowered into deep awkward pits dug for the purpose, in order that the rescue parties could have some practice in getting bodies out. Sometimes the task was very difficult and quite painful; worse still, our rescuers would sometimes get called away or interested in some moot point of procedure and we would be left in these insalubrious holes for what seemed an endless time. Sometimes we would call out as if we were trapped, which indeed we were, for we could not possibly have got out unaided. We hated these deep-hole practices, getting cold and bored and often extremely dirty.
On the 19th the news of the loss of the Courageous was published. She had been attacked on the night of Sunday the 7th – soon after the Athenia. Only 681 out of 1,260 of those she carried survived, and of these one was a boy bugler of only fifteen. I found this shocking – few of us had any idea that such young boys – mere children – would be allowed on warships. We were given the news by Mr Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, in his review of the war at sea. I had been brought up near Plymouth, and my mother still lived there. She wrote me of two young friends whom she had known since childhood, who had lost their lives in the Courageous. Her letter was sad, saying that she was re-living all the days of the 1914-18 war and seeing again the terrible casualty lists. She reminded me of all the uncles and cousins who had given their lives then. ‘What was the use?’ she wrote. ‘All it has produced is another war with the Germans.’
The reports on the siege of Warsaw were among the most terrible things to which I had ever listened. More so because I could listen in my beautiful room surrounded by comfort and with a good meal waiting downstairs in the dining-room. But I could not eat. There was, during all this time, a strange tense sensation in my inside which prevented me from swallowing. I looked round at the Peking horses surrounding the Green Cat. Ah Lee had said that the Cat would not be at home without objects from his own country round him.
In Warsaw they were eating horses. Eating horses. Here, in England, I was still able to ride them – going frequently to Putney for an hour’s hacking in between the shifts at the FAP. So horrific was the news from Warsaw that people in the streets of London reflected it in the gloom of their faces. So appalling and harrowing were the sufferings of the brave Polish people that it was difficult to listen to the broadcasts without weeping. For us there were the make-believe raids – the mock bombing, for them the actuality – the real death.
And so that momentous September came to an end with the fall of Warsaw, the introduction of Sir John Simon’s War Budget with its shock of the income tax being raised from 5s. 6d. to 7s. 6d. in the £ and with ‘Registration Night’. On this night all housewives had to fill in the forms already distributed with the names and particulars of all people spending the night of the 29th under their roof. This was, we were told, for the purpose of identity cards and ration cards with which we were all to be issued. A lot of people with unorthodox relationships resented this very much.
Mr Ferebee, who had the small grocer’s shop opposite No. 33, had warned us all of forthcoming shortages. I don’t think that any of us believed him. His well-stocked shop which seemed to have everything one could possibly want made it seem unlikely that the shelves could ever be empty. But he had experienced the 1914-18 war, as had Kathleen, and they knew. Quite early in October, which opened with a National Day of Prayer ordered by the King, woollen goods began to disappear from the shops. People were thinking of the oncoming winter when fuel would be scarce and when factories now making civilian garments would all be employed on uniforms, and were buying frantically.
Under a new order no paper was to be thrown away. There was to be a special paper salvage for industry where it would be urgently needed for pulping to make cardboard for packing essential war materials. Petrol restrictions had come in with the declaration of war and all over the country the horse was said to be coming to the fore again, and the newspapers had photographs of old family traps and governess carts brought out from dusty stables, and the bicycle came into its own. The streets were more and more full of uniformed men and women, as were all the stations, where posters enjoined us to avoid unnecessary travel because the trains were needed for the troops. Many young friends had left for France with their regiments. Some of the theatres had begun to close, although the public demand was for them to remain open. The black-out gave new and fascinating aspects of the Thames against which the outlines of buildings and the whole skyline were imprinted without the former blur of light from the great city. In the day we enjoyed freedom from traffic jams – the streets had suddenly become a joy for walking and cycling, and I now cycled with Vicki perched in a basket on the front.
Tension between Finland and the Soviet was rapidly growing – just as it had grown between Poland and Germany. Towns in Finland were already being evacuated and ARP precautions taken all over the country.
On the 16th the loss of the Royal Oak was announced baldly – with no details. She had apparently been sunk on the 14th with the loss of over 800 men and 24 officers. It was with a greater shock than this that we learned from Mr Churchill on the 18th, in his naval review, that the ship had actually been sunk when at anchor at Scapa Flow. The skill and daring of the Germans who had carried out this raid were emphasized by Mr Churchill, who warned the country what kind of enemy we were up against.
The idea that the Germans could actually sink one of our ships in our own waters in our own harbour was somehow utterly shocking to us all. I don’t know why. After all, the radio constantly told us of the direct hits which the RAF had been scoring for the past few weeks on ships in German harbours. Why then should it have upset us so much? Because it did. The thought that the Germans could enter our harbours and sink our ships at anchor there had the same incredibility as the thought that any stranger in the form of an air-raid warden could enter our homes without invitation. Our country, like our homes, was inviolate. But it had happened – and right at the beginning of the war.
Kathleen, whose life had been spent in naval circles, and I, who had been brought up with Plymouth as the nearest town, were equally shocked. Old Granny from Paradise Row was standing looking at some barges in the Thames the day after this news. ‘I reckon someone ought to be guarding all these ships,’ she said anxiously. ‘There’s no one even looking at them,’ and her old eyes scanned the depths of the river as if she expected to see a German U-boat surfacing at any minute. Kathleen decided after this to send her younger daughter, Penty, to friends in the country. She was an added anxiety to both Kathleen and Anne now that we were at war.
In the middle of October the National Gallery Concerts started. All the paintings had been removed from their familiar places and the galleries denuded of their treasures made piquant and unusual concert rooms. I went to one of the very first of these at which Jelly d’Aranyi played, and sat on the floor amongst every type of listener. It was a surprise to find so many tough-looking Servicemen perched on fragile gilt chairs completely absorbed in the music. The larger green canvas chairs seemed occupied by those unable to relax and many should have changed their seats! The floor was popular for all of us who could not find a seat, and so entrancing was the music offered us that no one cared about its hardness.
After the fall of Warsaw fresh ARP exercises were being carried out all over the country with renewed vigour. In Chelsea we had several more intensive ones, and were all instructed that we must attend the gas lecture course. The Government informed us that steel air-raid shelters were now available for purchase at the price of £7 each, this including delivery but not erection. Known as the Anderson shelters, after their sponsor, Sir John Anderson, they were soon being erected in many back and front gardens in Chelsea where they could be covered with earth and camouflage. On Sundays now it was common to see groups of men helping their neighbours to ‘put up the Anderson’. After the Royal Oak we were no longer so sure that the Germans would never
invade our skies.
Chapter Four
ONE OF THE MOST striking changes that the declaration of war caused was in the circle of one’s friends. A curtain of censorship cut off all those abroad, telephone communication with the Continent had been cut at the outbreak – and their letters, already censored, appeared unreal and disjointed. In one’s immediate circle some assumed a veiled, suspicious, a queer hostile questioning attitude to any of their friends who had any vestige of foreign blood in them. ‘You’re not wholly British. I don’t really know what your true feelings are, where your real sympathies lie, so it behoves me to be careful. I shan’t tell you anything,’ was their attitude. This was very marked in those working in Government departments – and soon almost all of them were either in the Services or in some Ministry. Thus the host of foreigners, many of whom had lived all their lives in Britain, now found themselves regarded as ‘aliens’, and treated with wary guardedness by those who had known them all their lives.
Some British friends apparently could not face war, and just left the country very unobtrusively with no good-byes, writing afterwards that they were in America or Canada as the case might be. Those who did this proved conclusively that we can never know any of our friends. We may think so, as I did, but an emergency often proves otherwise. Germans, Austrians, Czechs were all working with the rest of us in Chelsea at the outbreak of war. They all wanted to do their bit. In the excellent canteen for Civil Defence workers in the Chelsea Town Hall, I met a charming Dutch woman, the widow of a titled German refugee. She was suffering both from loneliness from the recent death of her husband, and from a sense of isolation at the activities of the British all round her at their war work. She was working in the canteen as a waitress, and served me when I was doing my shifts in the Control Room there. I had lived in Holland and spoke Dutch, and we became friends at once. She was known as Jennie, as her Dutch name was difficult to pronounce. In spite of the brutal treatment of her former husband, who had had Jewish blood, Jennie, widely travelled and widely read, had remained amazingly well balanced, in contrast to Ruth, who was almost insane on the subject of the Nazis.
A Chelsea Concerto Page 4
