by Angela Arney
So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he arrived at the end of the corridor almost without realizing it. He stopped and looked into the long Nightingale surgical ward. Although he hardly needed to look, he knew everything by heart. The two rows of beds facing each other, all their wheels facing the same way; Sister, a stickler for symmetry, had the young nurses whizzing up and down the ward kicking the wheels straight if one of them so much as dared deviate slightly left or right. He could see his replacement, an older man, too old for military service. He was at the far end doing a ward round followed by a flotilla of nurses and medical students. For a moment he felt sad, but then he turned into his office and picked up the last of his belongings and his medical bag, before leaving the hospital and striding across Westminster Bridge towards Waterloo Station and a waiting Adam.
The concourse was heaving with people, but he easily picked out Adam. He was there, tall and handsome in his blue pilot’s uniform, waiting beneath the clock as they’d arranged. No need for words, they fell into step and crossed the concourse, pushing their way through crowds of children and attendant adults towards the barrier where the train for Weymouth stood steaming at the platform.
There were no seats on the train. Even the first class carriage, for which they both had tickets, was filled to bursting point with children and their escorts.
‘I’d forgotten this was the first day of the great evacuation from London,’ said Henry apologetically. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be standing all the way to Stibbington.’
Adam was unfazed. ‘No matter. We’ve got the peace of Folly House to look forward to.’ He grinned and pulled a face. ‘At least, I presume you won’t be flooded out with evacuees.’
‘Not if Bertha has her way,’ said Henry with a wry smile.
Once they’d crammed themselves into a corridor at the end of the carriage, Adam lit a cigarette for Henry, then one for himself. They were surrounded by tearful, exhausted and dirty children. They were sitting on the floor, on each other, in fact on anywhere they could find a surface to sit on. All were clutching their gasmasks, and shabby little suitcases. Every now and then jam sandwiches were passed along from various teachers in charge of the children, and occasionally bottles of lemonade appeared, to be fiercely fought over.
The train lurched and rattled over the points, past Clapham Junction, on into the darkness of the south west, away from the city and the danger of bombs. ‘Poor little sods,’ said Henry, looking down at them. ‘They don’t know what’s happening to their world.’
‘Might turn out better for some of them. Most of them come from pretty dire circumstances.’ Adam puffed at his cigarette. ‘You know what they say. It’s an ill wind etc….’
Henry thought about Megan and the coming child. At least their child would be born in comfort and away from danger. Not like the children all around him. ‘I wonder how all these urchins will cope.’
‘Not your worry, old man.’ Adam concentrated on blowing a perfect smoke ring, much to the amazement of the nearest child – “Cor!” he could be heard muttering. ‘All you’ve got to do is enjoy the war.’
Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Enjoy it? How can anyone enjoy war?’
Adam laughed. ‘Come on! Be honest. Of course you’ll enjoy it. You’ll be shaking off the marital ties. Seeing a bit of the world and beating the jerries into a pulp at the same time.’
Henry realized yet again that Adam really did mean what he’d said about enjoying the war. ‘I’ve only thought of the death and suffering which is coming,’ he said slowly. ‘Of the disruption of everyone’s lives, and the social changes that will inevitably come as well.’
Adam slung an arm companionably around Henry’s shoulders. ‘Your trouble is that you are too serious. Of course there’ll be change. Change is progress. And as for death, well, everyone has to die sometime. So make the most of life while you have it, eh?’
Henry wished that he could be more like Adam and grab the things he wanted, rather than always doing what was expected of him. Not for the first time the nagging worry of wondering whether he had done the right thing in marrying Megan crept into his head. That was something he could never admit to anyone, especially not to Adam. But she was expecting their baby and that was something to look forward to. A child would surely bond them together, wouldn’t it?
The journey was long and tedious because the train stopped at every small station once it had reached the country away from the city, letting off small groups of evacuees who disappeared into the now totally black countryside. The only things visible were dim shaded torches, and the occasional swinging hurricane lamp. To make matters worse the train itself was in almost total darkness. All the light bulbs in the compartments and corridors had been removed because of the blackout regulations, and only a tiny weak blue tinted bulb illuminated the whole corridor. The scene took on Hogarthian nightmarish qualities, made worse now by the sound of wailing children who were hungry and missing their mothers.
‘I can’t wait to get out of here,’ muttered Adam irritably, lighting another cigarette.
The train clanked to a screeching halt and Henry peered out of the window, looking for the sign. ‘Beaulieu Road Halt,’ he said. ‘Thank God. Next stop will be Stibbington, that’s ours. George Jones should be there waiting to drive us to Folly House.’
But it was Megan who was waiting for them. She’d driven the large Daimler into Stibbington from Folly House and had enjoyed it, as she didn’t get the chance to drive the luxurious car very often as it used too much petrol. It had pre-selector gears on a wheel on the dashboard, and she enjoyed the sophistication of choosing the gears before actually shifting into them. She’d had a battle with George Jones and Lavinia, who’d both said she shouldn’t drive, but Megan won that battle.
She felt exultant. But one thing marred her jubilation and that was the dull ache in the pit of her stomach. I should have eaten something before I left, she thought, rubbing her aching stomach. But there’d been no time; she didn’t want to keep Henry and Adam waiting.
It was pitch dark when she arrived at the station. Only one of the platform gaslights was working and that had a grey shade on it. It made the tiny station look surreal, all dark shadows and black buildings.
‘I’m not keen on all this blackout lark,’ said Mr Moger, the stationmaster, coming up to Megan when she entered through the iron gates on to the platform. ‘Can’t say as I think it necessary out here in the country. Hitler don’t know where Stibbington is, we won’t get no bombs here.’
‘Not tonight anyway, as we’re not even at war,’ said Megan, pulling her jacket closer around her. She shivered; the night air seemed very chilly and was making her stomach ache worse. Maybe she was going to be sick. But she gritted her teeth. Mind over matter, she told herself. I am not going to be sick.
The stationmaster pushed his cap back and scratched his bald head. ‘Not at war yet,’ he repeated in a sombre tone. ‘But soon will be, mark my words. That’s why we’ve got all these kids coming here tonight.’ He’d hardly finished speaking when there was the sound of several bicycles coming along the gravelled road outside the station, then the sound of a car, and other people; in the background Mr Noakes’s voice could be heard. ‘That’ll be the welcoming committee,’ said Mr Moger. ‘They’ve come to sort out the children and billet them on those who have agreed to have them.’ He turned to Megan. ‘How many are you having up at Folly House?’
Megan shook her head. ‘I don’t think we’re having any. Nothing has been said.’
‘That’ll be Bertha Jones’s doing,’ said Mr Moger, pulling his cap back down. ‘She’ll not want the work of extra children. But mark my words. You’ll be having them up there sooner or later. We’ve all got to do our bit when the bombs come.’
‘Maybe the bombs won’t come,’ said Megan.
Mr Moger didn’t answer but went to the edge of the platform and stood silent for a moment. ‘The train is near,’ he said. ‘I can hear the rails humming.’
>
As he spoke the trained rounded the bend in the track and a huge white cloud of steam billowed into the night sky. Then with a roaring hiss and screeching of brakes the large locomotive slid to a halt at Stibbington station. The smell of burning coal and hot steam engulfed the station, and Megan felt sick again.
In the hubbub that followed Megan missed Henry and Adam. Instead she found herself caught up in a whirlwind of grizzling children, anxious adults shouting and trying to keep control, and above it all the voice of Mr Noakes, taking charge as usual. He was in his element.
‘Boys this side,’ he shouted, ‘and girls over there.’
‘But I want to stay with my friend,’ a small voice wailed.
‘You can’t separate them like that,’ a teacher argued.
‘I’m staying with my brother. I’m not going anywhere without him,’ another child screamed, close to tears.
‘All right! All right! Brothers and sisters in the middle.’ Albert Noakes capitulated. He saw Megan. ‘Are you taking some?’ he asked. ‘Who do you want?’
Megan backed away from the scrum. ‘No, no,’ she shook her head. ‘We’re not taking evacuees. Not this time,’ she added, trying to make good her escape. A small girl caught her hand.
‘Am I coming with you?’ she asked. ‘I don’t have no brothers and no sisters either. There’s just me. I’ll be no trouble.’
A little face, smeared with grime from the train journey, looked up at her. White streaks tracked the course of recent tears down her cheeks. Suddenly Megan’s heart was touched, and for the first time the real misery of the situation struck home. The coming war, which she’d tried not to acknowledge, abruptly forced its way into her consciousness. These children surging around her on the platform were the first in England to be picked up and tossed hither and thither like leaves before the storm. Not knowing what the next day might bring, and unable to choose their future. The chaos would touch them all; with a shiver she knew that even Folly House would be affected.
‘Who is having this child?’ she asked Albert Noakes.
He bent down and looked at the label attached to the child’s thin cotton coat. ‘Rosie Barnes,’ he muttered, looking through the sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked up. ‘Here we are, Rosie Barnes, seven years old and a cripple.’ He looked at Megan. ‘She’s a problem, this one. No one wants her ’cause she’s no use to work on the land on account of her club foot, and that’s what most folk round here want them for. Another pair of hands on the farm.’
‘I’m not a cripple,’ said Rosie, her childish voice high in indignation. ‘I’ve just got one leg shorter that the other and a club foot, but I can do everything all the others can. Look, I can even skip.’ She gave a little hop to demonstrate.
‘You going to take her?’ Mr Noakes looked at Megan, pencil poised above his list.
‘Yes,’ said Megan impulsively. The moment the word was out of her mouth she wondered what on earth had made her say it.
‘Then sign here.’ Mr Noakes thrust a piece of paper into her hand and before she could stop and think Megan found herself signing for Rosie Barnes, of 23 Gasworks Street, Hackney. As soon as she’d signed Mr Noakes dashed off to begin allocating other children to the assembled crowd.
She was left standing in the gloom of the station lamp looking at Rosie, and Rosie looked back, a wide smile now spreading across her small face. ‘I won’t be no trouble, I promise,’ she said. ‘My mum said she’d kill me if I was sent back, and it’s not true what he said,’ she nodded towards Albert Noakes, now surrounded by children and the inhabitants of Stibbington. ‘I can work. I knows how to wash up, scrub floors, and I can black grates, and white steps as well.’ Her smile faded and her pale, pinched features took on an anxious look. ‘I can really.’
Megan found herself smiling down at her. ‘I don’t think we shall need you to do any of that, Rosie,’ she said.
‘But what will I do all day?’ Rosie looked worried.
‘Go to school, of course,’ said Megan. ‘Come on,’ she picked up Rosie’s small cardboard suitcase, and held out her hand.
After a moment’s hesitation Rosie put her small hand in Megan’s. ‘I’ve got to look after that,’ she said indicating the suitcase. ‘It’s brand new. My mum bought it in Woolworth’s special for me.’
By the time Megan got back to the Daimler, where an irritated Henry and Adam were now standing, she had found out that Rosie rarely went to school because her mother had another sickly infant at home and wasn’t well herself. From what Megan could deduce Rosie was to all intents and purposes the housewife running the little family. Her father was unemployed and according to Rosie was in the Kings Head most of the time during the day, only returning at night if he could find his way home. She didn’t say he was drunk or violent, but reading between the lines Megan guessed he was probably both.
‘Who have you got there?’ said Henry as soon as he’d spotted Rosie.
‘This is Rosie,’ said Megan. ‘She’s an evacuee from London and she will be staying with us while the war is on.’ Unlocking the Daimler she put Rosie’s case in the boot. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said Henry, putting his own case in the boot and making room for Adam’s as well. He caught Adam’s eye and knew what he was thinking. This would make it easier for him to tell everyone that he was leaving to be an officer in the RAMC. An evacuee made the prospect of war much more real.
Megan sat in the back of the car with Rosie as Henry drove back to Folly House. The child peered curiously out of the window into the darkness. ‘The blackout is good here,’ she said. ‘I can’t see any lights. Our street has one light still on, but it’s dim. My dad says that our light will be bombed first because we’re near the gasworks. I wish we didn’t have any lights at all, like here.’
‘There are no lights here because it’s the country,’ said Megan. ‘We don’t have streetlights.’
‘None at all?’ Rosie was amazed. ‘But where are the houses? They must have very good blackout too.’
‘There are not many houses either,’ said Megan. ‘Just one or two, here and there.’
Rosie digested this information in silence, and Megan leaned back in her seat, looking at Adam and Henry in the front. She noticed Henry had a new haircut, very short, rather like Adam’s. It suited him, and Adam was looking even more handsome in the blue uniform of the Royal Air Force. They were talking quietly together. She tried not to feel jealous; it was ridiculous to feel jealous of one of Henry’s friends. Then she thought about Henry’s reaction to Rosie. She’d expected him to be irritated and hostile, but he’d just accepted it.
Rosie suddenly slipped a cold little hand into hers and squeezed it. Megan guessed that despite her cocky self-confident air she was nervous, and hoped Bertha and Lavinia would be kind and not be put out by the arrival of an evacuee.
Suddenly the dull ache in her stomach increased in intensity, and involuntarily she grasped Rosie’s hand tightly. ‘Sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I had a sudden pain in my stomach and it made me jump.’
‘What you need,’ said Rosie, nodding her head knowledgeably, ‘is a good drop of gin and a hot bath. My mum always has that when she’s got a pain in her stomach. Of course she can only have a hot bath if my dad brings the bath in from the yard, but he don’t always bother, so she don’t get it.
‘Really,’ said Megan, wondering if Rosie knew that gin and hot baths were supposed to bring on a miscarriage.
There was a moment’s silence, then Rosie added wistfully, ‘I loves a bath, especially when we’ve got a bit of soap.’
‘You can have one when we get to Folly House,’ said Megan, steeling herself against the increasing pain. ‘I’ll get Bertha to run one for you.’ The pain got worse, coming in regular violent spasms. Was this what it was like to have a baby? But it was months too soon, so it couldn’t be that.
‘Who is Bertha?’ asked Rosie.
But Megan didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The pain was tearing at her
insides, she was hot and sweaty and at the same time shivering violently.
Henry turned the car through the iron gates of Folly House. Home at last thought Megan feverishly and tried to get out of the car. But her legs crumpled beneath her and suddenly she felt the cold gritty stones of the gravel against her face.
There were lights, lights everywhere, Rosie was still holding her hand, and then disappeared. Henry was shouting, the house swirled in a kaleidoscope of colours, and she felt a hot sticky wetness engulf her. Then there was blackness, and pain, only pain.
‘Megan!’
From far away she heard Henry calling, but it was too difficult to get through the blackness. It was easier to let go and float away into the black night away from the gut-wrenching pain.
‘Sorry old chap.’ Dr Crozier flung himself down on the chesterfield at the side of the gold room, and tossed back a hot toddy Henry passed him. ‘Not a good homecoming, but you know yourself that these things happen. I’ve left Lavinia up there; she’s going to stay with her for a while. But Megan’s young and healthy. She’ll get over it and have plenty more babies.’
‘Exactly,’ said Adam, flicking his lighter into life as he lit yet another cigarette. ‘I never understand why people make so much fuss over a miscarriage. It’s not as if it’s really a child.
Henry made a toddy for himself and gazed out into the darkness of the garden. In the distance he could see the red port light of a cargo ship making its way along the Solent towards Southampton. The last few hours seemed unreal; the nightmare journey from London; the dramatic event of Megan’s collapse; finally, the bloodied mess that should have been their baby. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘There will be other babies.’
‘Of course there will. It’s not the end of the world.’ Dr Crozier shrugged himself into his overcoat. He paused a moment, then put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Of course, we know it’s not the end of the world, but I’m afraid Megan may not see it like that. She’ll need plenty of support in the coming days.’
