by Daisy Styles
Julia turned to see if Nora had understood what she was saying.
‘You mean they go blank?’ Nora remarked.
‘Exactly,’ Julia responded.
They walked on for a while in silence, then Nora angrily burst out, ‘They were wrong to send me to that ward without a word of warning. I breezed in with the tea trolley and was met with a stone wall. I thought it might be because of something I’d done,’ she added guiltily. ‘I went blundering up to a poor lad who’d had half his face blown away, and when he saw me he started yelling and crying. God, it was awful!’ she cried, tears forming in her eyes. ‘I never took up volunteering to upset poor wounded soldiers – they should never have let me go to D6 with that bloody tea trolley,’ she fumed. ‘All I did was trouble folks – I’m just no good at it!’
Julia shook her head. ‘You’re quite wrong!’ she declared. ‘Normality and routine are what help patients; they give them a structure.’ Thinking hard, Julia tried to recall what else she’d read about battle fatigue that would help Nora not to blame herself the next time she volunteered.
‘Sometimes you can’t see that the person is sick – they look no different from anybody else – but inside they may be suffering from memory loss, lack of sleep, fear of death, isolation, and all sorts of other horrible things. A warm, smiley, friendly face such as yours can only make these poor men feel better,’ Julia added reassuringly.
‘Some of the fellas on D6 were crying,’ Nora pointed out.
Julia tentatively put a hand on Nora’s arm. ‘Look, if it upsets you this much, you should make it clear when you next sign on at Wrigg Hall that you’d prefer not to be sent to D6 – nobody will mind,’ she assured Nora, who vehemently shook her head.
‘NO!’ she cried. ‘I’m NOT giving up. Them poor lads are suffering a lot more than me, and, more to the point, they suffered because of me, and you, and everybody who wants to be free!’ she said, as she made a wide sweeping movement with her hand. ‘I can and I will do this,’ she added through gritted teeth.
Julia gazed at Nora in admiration; this was a side of the chatterbox girl that she’d never expected to see.
‘Mi mam and mi kid sister were blown up by a stray bomb a year ago,’ Nora suddenly said. ‘Some bloody Hun emptied his bomb bay to lighten his load and get home quicker over open countryside … mi mam and mi sister were blown to smithereens.’ Nora took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I got through that and I’ll get through this,’ she muttered, as she defiantly strode past wide-eyed Julia and over the darkening moors.
Nora kept her word: the next time she visited Wrigg Hall she went to the kitchen area, where she picked up the tea trolley and then made straight for Ward D6. ‘No point in putting it off,’ she said firmly to herself.
Pushing open the door, she entered the ward but not tentatively, as she had before; this time she went with a bright smile and a cheerful ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen’. She progressed along the line of beds and made a point of greeting each patient, offering him tea and cake. And even if he didn’t respond, Nora would chat to him about all kinds of banal things.
‘The daffodils are coming up,’ she said happily. ‘A sure sign of spring. And the snow’s gone from the moors. I was up there only the other day: it were so beautiful, the birds were singing their little hearts out!’
Nora’s comforting presence, her soothing Northern voice, her infectious sense of humour and ordinary everyday conversations about the weather or what she’d been listening to on the radio seemed to comfort some of the patients.
‘Who’s got a favourite Gracie Fields’ number?’ she said as she brought her trolley to a stop near a group of men slouched vacantly in chairs. She had got used to receiving no reply, so their silence no longer bothered her; she just chatted on. ‘I don’t think anything beats “Bless ’Em All”,’ she announced, as she poured strong dark tea into mugs. ‘Remember how it goes?’ she asked, setting the mugs on the table. ‘Bless ’em all, bless ’em all, the long, the rich and the tall.’ Having steeled herself to expecting no response and knowing that self-aggrandizement was not something that belonged on D6, Nora continued softly singing snatches of Gracie’s song as she did her round.
It didn’t happen overnight but gradually the patients responded to the warm-hearted, gap-toothed, smiling redhead who was constantly wrestling to keep her wild frizzy hair inside her starched white cap. Nora’s heart leapt with happiness when she got her first vague look of recognition; and a few visits later, when she thought she saw the faintest smile on a patient’s face, followed by a shy nod, Nora knew instinctively that she was going in the right direction. She was overjoyed when the Ward Sister confirmed her feelings.
‘The men are beginning to trust you,’ she said. ‘Well done.’
If she’d been given the George Cross, Nora couldn’t have been happier! This was trust indeed, she thought: men who’d lost touch with themselves tentatively reaching out – the very thought made Nora weep.
‘This volunteering’s getting you down, lass,’ Edna said sharply when she saw Nora’s red-rimmed eyes.
‘It’s not getting me down,’ Nora answered firmly. ‘It just breaks my heart to think what the men have been through. I want to hold them and make sure they’ll never be hurt again.’
Touched by Nora’s guileless simplicity, Edna smiled. ‘You’re doing a grand job, but just remember it’s only voluntary work.’
Edna’s words of advice were completely lost on Nora when it came to nursing Peter. At least he’d now stopped reacting to her as if she was a live hand grenade every time she approached his bedside with a cup of tea. Nora had taken a pattern out of the Ward Sister’s book: Nora had watched her sitting by Peter’s side, talking soothingly as she firmly held his trembling hands, and she’d seen Peter’s habitual rocking movement slowly cease.
One day, as Nora was sitting beside Peter herself, holding his hand as Sister did, Nora, having run out of pleasantries about the weather, decided she’d tell Peter about her friends at work.
‘I live in a cowshed,’ she started. ‘It’s been done up – we’re not knee-deep in cow muck!’ she laughed. ‘There’s four of us – me, Nora’ – she pointed to herself – ‘mi best pal, Maggie, she’s the one that’s getting married. My God! You’d think no bugger in the world ’ad ever got wed before, ooh, pardon my French!’ she said in an apologetic whisper. Peter didn’t make any response, but she noticed that his habitual rocking movement was slowing down. ‘Then there’s Rosa – she’s Italian – but she’s not herself these days.’ Thinking it might be wise to circumnavigate Rosa’s sadness, Nora swiftly moved on. ‘And finally there’s Julia.’ Nora let out a long sigh. ‘She’s a Southerner, from London, too posh to mix with us common factory girls but …’ She remembered how understanding Julia had been when she’d talked to her about Peter’s condition. ‘She has her good moments.’
Fifteen minutes later the tea in the urn was stone cold and Nora was still rattling on about life at the Phoenix to Peter, who had by now stopped rocking altogether. Seeing the time on the wall clock, Nora reluctantly said, ‘I’d best go, lovie.’
She rose to her feet and made to let go of Peter’s warm hand. ‘Bye bye for now, Peter,’ she said as she looked into his good eye, on the side of his face that had once been beautiful.
But Peter didn’t let go of her hand; his mouth twisted and he made little inarticulate noises that eventually formed something that sounded like ‘Nora’.
She smothered a gasp – had he really just said her name?
‘Nora,’ he said again.
Looking into Peter’s smashed face, Nora thought her heart would burst. ‘That’s right, sweetheart, I’m Nora, and you’re Peter.’
Pushing the trolley away from Peter’s bed, an elated Nora thought, ‘Peter knows me!’
The VAD Sister verified Nora’s thoughts. ‘You’ve been a great help with Peter this afternoon.’
Nora glowed with happiness. ‘I like helping him,’ she answered. ‘I
like helping them all!’ she added passionately.
‘I can see that, and they can as well. Keep up the good work,’ the Sister said. ‘See you next week.’
15. Percy
The ‘Dig for Victory’ discussion had had a far-reaching effect on Maggie: when she wasn’t on late shifts, she visited the local allotments until she found what she wanted: a vacant plot conveniently situated between the cowshed and the Phoenix that she immediately snapped up.
‘You can have two if you want, love?’ the old man in charge suggested. ‘They’re going for almost nowt since yon government wants us growing our own grub.’
‘Two allotments?’ Maggie asked.
‘Aye, this one and t’other ’long side it. Mind you – they’ll keep thee busy from dawn till bloody dusk.’
Maggie threw back her shoulders, thereby (quite innocently) emphasizing her large bust, which brought the old boy’s eyes out on stalks.
‘I’m a big girl,’ she said enthusiastically.
‘Aye, yer that alreet!’ he grinned.
‘All I need now is a pig,’ Maggie added.
If it were possible that the old man’s eyes could widen even further, they did. ‘Are you pulling my leg?’
‘No, I want to find a pig to fatten up for my wedding breakfast on the eighth of May,’ Maggie replied. ‘It might be impossible, with all the government rules and regulations I’ve been reading about, but,’ she added robustly, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained!’
‘May, yer say,’ he muttered, and did a quick calculation on his fingers. ‘You won’t be wanting a weaner, then?’
‘Weaner?’
‘A piglet that’s just been weaned,’ he explained.
‘Oooh, no, I wouldn’t want to slaughter a baby!’ Maggie gasped.
‘Are you in a position to feed a pig?’ the old man asked sharply. ‘Bloody pigs can eat for England!’
Maggie thought of the brimming waste-food bin at the Phoenix; she was quite sure she could come to some arrangement with the amiable kitchen staff. She nodded enthusiastically.
‘I’ll see if any of the local pig clubs are wanting to offload a runt?’ was his only answer, accompanied by a wink that Maggie found completely aggravating.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ she asked crossly.
The old man continued with his maddening allusive line: ‘I’ll have to make inquiries. How can I get in touch with you if I find one?’
‘I live in the cowshed, up the lane from the Phoenix factory.’
‘That owd shack!’ he said with a chuckle.
‘It does for us Bomb Girls.’
‘Well, I’ll know where to find you – by the way, mi name’s Percy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Percy. I’m Maggie.’
Convinced that the old man was no doubt just fantasizing about helping her, and that his promises would come to nothing, Maggie forced out a polite smile as she said goodbye. Walking away from him, aware that he was admiring her shapely backside, she thought to herself, ‘Pigs’ll fly before he comes up with the goods,’ then giggled at her apt choice of words.
A few days later, after a long hard shift, Maggie was soaking in a luke-warm bath – it had been Nora’s turn to go first – when she heard a knock at the cowshed door.
‘It’s for you, Mags,’ Nora yelled.
‘Bugger! Is there nowhere I can have five minutes’ peace?’ Maggie groaned, as she hauled herself out of the bath.
Wrapped in her dressing gown, she padded to the door, where she was shocked to see Percy waiting for her. Coming straight to the point, he grinned and said, ‘Got summat for you, lass. It’s out yonder.’
‘Can I get dressed first?’ Maggie asked quickly.
‘Make it sharpish – this business won’t wait.’
Intrigued, Maggie dashed back into her bedroom and threw on some clothes without properly drying herself. ‘This had better be worth it,’ she thought.
When she returned to the front door, Percy was gone. ‘What’s the old fool playing at?’ Maggie grumbled.
‘Oy, lass! Over ’ere!’ he called from the gable end of the cowshed.
Shoving her feet into some old wellies she kept by the door, Maggie hurried around the corner of the building, and there she stood as if turned to stone. Snuffling contentedly around the dustbin was a happy pink pig!
‘You got one!’ she gasped.
‘It weren’t easy,’ Percy said with a bit of a swagger. ‘Pig clubs are proper tight – wouldn’t part with a fart! If you’ll excuse my language,’ he added cheerfully, as he tugged the length of rope he’d looped around the pig’s neck. ‘I were lucky with a Ramsbottom farmer, a mate o’ mine on t’other side of the valley, who didn’t mind swapping a runt for fifty Woodbines.’
An astonished Maggie, who could barely drag her eyes from the pig, spluttered, ‘RUNT?’
‘Aye, smallest, scrag-end of the litter,’ Percy explained. ‘Jesus! You should’ve seen the rest of ’em!’ he chuckled. ‘Size of bloody gable ends!’ His eyes swept over the pig’s flanks. ‘She should fatten up nicely for your wedding if you look after her proper.’
Maggie cringed; could the pig understand what he was saying, she wondered guiltily.
‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ Percy chuckled. ‘What’re you going to do with her?’
‘Her!’ Maggie cried. ‘A girl?’
‘A sow,’ Percy corrected her. ‘’Ave you got owt to feed her?’ he added, giving another tug on the rope around the sow’s neck. ‘It might help her settle in; otherwise she might head back home to Ramsbottom.’
Maggie’s brain was in a whirl; she was so unprepared for this; if she’d known she was having a pig to stay, she wouldn’t have eaten her tea, pork rissoles. ‘Oh, no!’ she thought. ‘I couldn’t have fed rissoles to her – it’d be like eating a relative!’
‘Take her down to the allotment, will you?’ Maggie said to Percy, as she turned back into the cowshed. ‘I’ll go and see what I can rustle up for her tea.’
‘Be sharp about it – it’ll be dark soon,’ said Percy, as he set off down the lane with the pig trotting happily at his side.
In the sparse kitchen Maggie rummaged through the cupboards but found nothing but half a packet of salt. ‘I might get some slops from the Phoenix canteen,’ she frantically thought as she ran out of the cowshed, clutching an aluminium bucket. Nora and Rosa (Julia was, as usual, in her bedroom) watched Maggie’s antics in wide-eyed amazement.
‘She’s running around like a blue-arsed fly!’ Nora murmured curiously. ‘Something must be up.’
Maggie ran all the way to the Phoenix canteen, where she begged for two buckets of food slops in exchange for ten Woodbines. Never dreaming that two buckets of slops would weigh so much, Maggie staggered back up the path to the allotment with oxtail soup slopping from the buckets into her boots. In her absence Percy had settled the pig in a makeshift pig pen improvised from an old shed with a corrugated-tin roof and a length of fencing he’d strung across the shed door that dangled from one rusty hinge.
‘There’s no straw,’ he complained. ‘What’s the animal going to sleep on, never mind relieve itself on? Thou’s not prepared theeself, woman!’ Percy chided sharply.
‘I didn’t know you were going to turn up with a pig so soon,’ Maggie remonstrated. ‘Or at all! Not that I’m not grateful,’ she quickly added.
‘When a fella offers you a pig for fifty fags you don’t stand about,’ Percy snapped.
Maggie carefully set down the two heavy pails in order to rub her aching hands.
‘Fella said he couldn’t feed more than a couple of pigs. This one would’ve ’ad its throat slit if it weren’t for you making inquiries,’ Percy informed her cheerfully.
By now the pig could smell the slops overflowing from the buckets.
‘Best feed her before we’ve got a riot on our hands,’ Percy said. ‘Stand back or she’ll flatten thee!’
Wondering what he was going to do next, Maggie leapt aside as Perc
y grabbed one of the buckets; holding it firmly in one hand and with a stick in the other, he poked the pig away from the makeshift fence he’d erected and settled the pail on the ground inside the pen.
‘Watch her shift that lot,’ Percy said gleefully.
And indeed it was a sight for sore eyes. The hungry animal buried her face in the swill and hardly came up for air until she’d reached the bottom of the bucket, finishing with a loud, satisfied belch.
‘I’ll be off now,’ Percy said, straightening his flat cap.
‘Noo!’ Maggie exclaimed. Totally panicked, she grabbed Percy’s arm to prevent him from leaving her. ‘I don’t know what to do!’ she cried.
‘Leave her be for now,’ Percy advised. ‘I’ll come up with some straw tomorrow, for bedding, and a hammer and nails to fix that shed, thee will ’ave to find her grub, and muck her out too.’ Seeing her wild look, he added, ‘You only need a shovel to shift the muck!’
Laughing to himself, Percy set off down the lane, leaving Maggie staring at the pig, who was butting her head against the fencing Percy had erected.
‘Oh, God!’ she said out loud. ‘What’ve I done?’
When it was nearly dark and Maggie still hadn’t come home, Nora set a stub of a candle in an old lantern and set off down the lane to look for her. Stopping in the pitch dark, she swung the feeble lantern from left to right; she could hardly see a thing but she could hear a low grunting sound.
‘That can’t be Maggie?’ Nora murmured.
With hairs standing up on the back of her neck, Nora crept slowly towards the sound, which was coming from the allotments.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried, as she swung the lantern high.
‘Me!’ Maggie cried back.
‘What’re you doing out here in the dark?’ Nora scolded as she approached, shedding light on to Maggie, who was crouched on the ground.
‘Are you all right?’ Nora asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Maggie replied. ‘Come closer, then I can introduce you to my new friend.’
