Birmingham Friends

by Annie Murray

  ‘Nurse!’

  ‘Go and see,’ the doctor ordered me.

  A middle-aged man, face a ghastly white, was lying stoically pressing a pad to his wounded head. When I approached him, he said, ‘I’m all right love. You see to ’im.’

  The sounds of distress were coming from the younger man beside him. He had a padded dressing which had been hastily applied to his left cheek and was already bloodstained. The clothing had been cut from his upper torso, presumably because it was soaked in blood. There was no other apparent injury to his body.

  I bent down beside him. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Few of our patients made much of a to-do when they came in. Some, of course, were very frightened or in pain, but many of them were in shock and lay there numbly like sacrificial lambs.

  ‘God,’ he groaned. ‘I’m in such bloody agony.’ He twitched his body angrily from side to side. ‘I can’t stand it. It was numb to begin with, but now it’s getting worse every minute.’ He spoke painfully out of the side of his mouth, trying not to move the left side of his face.

  ‘It won’t be long,’ I assured him. ‘A doctor will see to you properly soon. It’s busy tonight, I’m afraid.’ I felt a bit irritated at the fuss he was making, but at the same time there was something about him which intrigued me. I think it was partly the strength of feeling that came from him, even though it was expressed through frustration, and partly the glimpse I caught of the side of his face not covered by the dressing. I saw the contours of a prominent cheekbone, a strong chin and eyes of the brightest blue I’d ever seen. I found myself staring in fascination.

  I thought I’d try and take his mind off the pain. ‘My name’s Kate,’ I said. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Douglas Craven,’ he grunted, then added ironically, ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He spoke very carefully, wincing as he did so.

  ‘It’s bad out there tonight, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it’s bad,’ he snapped. ‘What the hell d’you think?’

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Don’t know exactly. I was on firewatch. There was stuff flying all over the place. Something stabbed right through my cheek – metal. I can feel it’s gone into the bone . . . Aagh – God!’

  He started giving dry, tearless sobs, his lips contorting miserably. He had a little moustache which was clotted with blood so I couldn’t see its colour. His hair was blond though, so I assumed the moustache might be. For a moment I took his hand.

  ‘They’ll soon look at you. It must be quite awful for you.’

  ‘Damn it!’ He writhed beside me. ‘This is terrible.’

  He communicated the powerful outrage of a fit man who has been struck down and slowed.

  A commotion suddenly started up at the entrance, raised voices and more stretchers arriving.

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  Everyone was talking at once, the ambulance workers, a doctor trying to be heard above everyone else. Then everyone saying ‘Ssssh.’

  ‘It’s the Carlton Cinema up Sparkhill,’ one of the ambulance workers told us. His eyelashes were white with dust.

  ‘The control centre warned us you were coming,’ said a voice. Everyone had fallen silent. ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Direct hit. Straight down in front of the screen.’ The man speaking looked really shaken. ‘There’s God knows how many gone. The blast got their lungs. They were all sat there in the front rows as if they were still watching the film. Never seen anything like it. Eerie as hell. They’re taking the rest straight to the General, and Selly Oak, I think.’

  I hurried back to Douglas Craven. ‘It’s going to be very busy.’ I told him what had happened.

  ‘Oh damn, damn,’ he groaned.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong? Was someone you knew at the Carlton?’

  ‘I should have been over there.’

  I stared at him in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m a reporter. If I hadn’t been on bloody firewatch I could have been over there – got the first look at it . . . And now I’m stuck here with my face in shreds . . .’

  I knelt down close to him so that no one else could hear, and between clenched teeth I said, ‘You stupid, self-pitying sod. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  I turned away and busied myself with what I considered to be more deserving patients.

  The next day I was ashamed. It was very bad form to talk to any patient like that however much they provoked you. It had been a very hard night and I was exhausted, but I went to enquire with the casualty register.

  ‘Douglas Craven? Looks as if he was admitted for the night.’

  The morning, after the all clear, had brought news that the total dead in the Carlton Cinema was nineteen. It was the first thing my mother told me the next morning. I resolved to take this news to Douglas Craven, to show him the consequences of what he had seen as a ‘story’. I suppose I felt rather self-righteous, and it didn’t occur to me that the reason the city was reeling with the news this morning was that someone like Douglas had done the job of reporting it.

  We didn’t recognize each other to begin with. They’d cleaned Douglas up so that his hair and moustache were the same colour, and the dressing was neat and not seeping.

  Now it was more reposed, his face was even more striking, with its chiselled bone structure and those vivid blue eyes. He was sitting in bed in the pale light of the ward eyeing the morning paper.

  ‘Hello,’ I said gruffly.

  He looked up, baffled. I didn’t have my uniform on.

  Speaking rapidly, I said, ‘I owe you an apology – for last night. I shouldn’t have said what I did. You were in pain and in a state. I’m sorry.’

  His blue eyes suddenly showed recognition. ‘Kate, isn’t it? My Florence Nightingale.’ He appeared still to speak with some difficulty.

  ‘Not all nurses are Florence Nightingale,’ I pointed out stiffly. ‘We’re all different. We have personalities of our own actually.’

  ‘Yes, quite. I’m sorry. And thank you for your apology. You’re quite right, I was in a state, but nothing to some of them who came in. I’m afraid I was having a bit of a tantrum. Do sit down by the way.’

  Reluctantly I perched on the chair by his bed. I wasn’t at home as a visitor in a hospital, nor was I sure how I felt about being in his company.

  ‘Surely you should be asleep in bed after last night, not visiting me?’

  ‘I’ve slept. I’m used to night work. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Oh marvellous. Actually – ’ he tried a rueful smile, putting the palm of his hand cautiously against the dressing – ‘my face is dreadfully sore and stiff. They managed to yank out a great shard of something.’ He spoke in a sardonic tone, but I saw a blush seep across his face. ‘I’m afraid I was an awful baby.’

  Disarmed, I said, ‘That’s all right. It’s the pain.’ I added untruthfully, ‘Anyone’d be the same.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘Do you enjoy being a nurse? Seems a frightful job to me.’

  ‘Oh yes – on the whole.’ I told him of my longer-term plans. I found that he asked a great many questions, and that by the time I left I had told him a surprising amount about myself, my work and my family. I supposed he was at ease asking questions. It was his job, after all. His eyes watched me with intent interest. To my surprise I realized I was enjoying the conversation. I found myself telling him I was engaged, which seemed the easiest way of explaining my relationship with Angus.

  ‘Ah,’ Douglas said. ‘That explains it. Your face has a kind of glow about it.’

  I smiled wryly. In fact I was feeling pretty washed out and tired sitting there after a few restless hours of sleep.

  ‘Must be the light of love I can see – lucky fellow.’ For a split second as he said these words Douglas appeared vulnerable.

  ‘You don’t have anyone?’

  He gave an odd laugh, somehow apologetic. ‘Me? Good heavens no.’

&
nbsp; Unsure what to say next I felt I ought to leave. I stood up, suddenly reluctant to go. As we shook hands I smiled, and Douglas made a rueful attempt to do the same. ‘Well, good luck. Don’t risk too much for your reporting will you?’

  He said goodbye with a strange solemnity. I turned at the door as I left, half pretending I was just glancing round the ward, and saw he was still watching me. I raised my hand in a wave. As I walked downstairs from the ward I mused over the fact that I had told him far more about myself than I had imagined possible, and that about him I knew almost nothing.

  Chapter 13

  Olivia stopped writing to me in any meaningful way in November 1940. After sending a letter faithfully once or twice a week, she scarcely wrote now from one month to the next, and when she did, it was a note on a single sheet, brief and frothy, as if suddenly for a few seconds she had remembered me. At first I was baffled. She’d been home on leave for a week back in the summer and we’d had a very jolly time together, laughing almost as much as when we were children. It was an escape from the war, looking at the light side of things and finding the jokes.

  Livy had looked healthy and full of life, showing off her uniform – ‘It’s definitely the smartest in the women’s services. Not like that awful drab ATS garb!’ – playing the piano, and we’d gone out dancing . . . And suddenly this oddness.

  ‘Dearest Katie,’ she wrote in December that year,

  Guess what – I’ve been reposted! More responsibility, or so they tell me, though it doesn’t feel too arduous as yet. All in all though a new, big adventure.

  How are things in grim old Birmingham? Life here is such a lark – as I’m sure I’ve said. I can’t think why I didn’t join up at the earliest opportunity! My life before the war seems deathly when I think back on it now. Of course we’re working fearfully hard as well, but I scarcely have a night in, except when we have to – dreary domestic nights which are a rule of the service. But at least it’s a chance to reset my hair!

  I do hope you’re not overworking and burning yourself out with all your duties. Do remember to let up sometimes won’t you?!

  Just dashing this off – must finish now. There’ll be a lot of disappointed faces at the dance tonight if I don’t turn up!

  All love for now. Olivia.

  After several letters like this I felt pretty browned off with her, and not just because her writing to me was so rare when I’d been making an effort to write regularly, but because the tone of them was always similar to this one. It didn’t strike me then that anything was wrong: I was just irritated by their shallowness. She felt so distant and it was as if we could no longer communicate about anything important.

  Angus spent the Christmas of 1940 at home.

  ‘Oh, look at you!’ I greeted him, fingering the embroidered wings on his blue uniform. ‘A real airman!’

  While he was home we announced to our families that we planned to marry.

  ‘We don’t feel we can plan a date,’ Angus explained to his mum and dad. ‘Not with things as they are. But as soon as I know I’m going to be back home . . .’

  ‘I can’t pretend I’m surprised,’ Ruth Harvey said, embracing me enthusiastically. ‘And I couldn’t be more delighted.’

  Christmas slipped by far too quickly. Angus and I treated ourselves to one night away together, deciding not to worry what anyone thought. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to comment and Peter Harvey lent us his car. When we signed ourselves into a small country inn it was as Mr and Mrs Harvey. No doubt couples were doing something similar all over the country.

  In the small restaurant we had a magnificent meal considering the time of year and strictures of rationing.

  ‘That’s the great thing about being in the country.’ I stared in wonder at the pheasant and generous helpings of vegetables on my plate. ‘And she said there’d be eggs for breakfast!’

  ‘Didn’t you see the chickens out at the back when we arrived?’ Angus said, smiling at my enthusiasm. ‘That’s what you really came for, wasn’t it – the food!’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ I took his hand across the table. ‘But it’s all lovely.’

  ‘We don’t do badly for food. I think they give the services all the best.’

  ‘Well I’m glad they’re looking after you.’

  We ordered a half bottle of wine and sat for a long time near the comforting fire in the inglenook, enjoying being with each other. Because my thoughts were often sad and questioning I didn’t want to voice them, and I sensed there were a lot of things that Angus was not saying, was keeping at bay. We sat quietly holding hands across the table, and when we did talk it was often about the past because it was safer.

  ‘D’you remember that day when your granny stripped off just as your mum was expecting all those parish bods round?’

  I smiled back. That afternoon: Granny’s graphic display of her frustrations, Olivia’s strange mood – the start of so many more.

  ‘I thought your mother would burst she was so angry.’

  ‘Oh no. That’d be far too self-indulgent. She’s prepared to permit herself some emotions, provided they’re all brisk, positive ones.’

  ‘You’re very hard on her.’

  ‘I’ve had to live with her. Your mother’s so relaxed and warm compared with mine.’

  Angus nodded, unable to contradict me. He watched me, head on one side. ‘How’s Livy getting on?’

  ‘Oh, like a house on fire apparently.’ I couldn’t help the bitter edge to my voice. ‘Taking the Wrens by storm, one long party, all marvellous . . .’ I spoke mocking the tone of those breezy notes which made me feel so cut off from her in their twittering, persuasive brightness.

  ‘So what’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know who she is any more. As if we can’t ever tell each other anything. It used not to be like this.’

  ‘Don’t let it upset you.’ He squeezed my hands, his own cupped warm and comforting around them. ‘Everyone has different ways of getting through all this. Maybe that’s hers.’

  I was staring down at the cloth. ‘It just feels as if I’m losing everyone – the people who really matter, anyway. Still – ’ I loosed one hand to take a sip from my glass, looking at the flames through the deep red liquid. ‘Mustn’t start feeling sorry for myself.’

  ‘Oh, go on – I was rather enjoying it,’ Angus teased.

  ‘At least you’re here – that’s the main thing.’

  He shook his head slowly. His hair was so short now, clipped very precisely round his ears. ‘I’m not certain for how much longer.’ He spoke reluctantly.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He leaned forward and whispered, very close to my ear: ‘Strong possibility of an overseas posting coming up.’

  ‘Oh, Angus, no!’ I put my glass down, catching the base on the ashtray. Red wine bled slowly across the white cloth. I sprinkled salt on the stain and it turned a sickly pink. I felt tears rising in me. Angus going away, no home leaves, never seeing him. I cursed myself for being so self-centred.

  ‘Look – we haven’t actually heard anything yet.’

  I looked across at him in silence. He took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Come on, Katie. Let’s go up.’

  He teased me out of my despondency on the way up the dark staircase, trying to lift me up, sweeping me off my feet.

  ‘I wouldn’t have even attempted this a few years ago,’ he said, pretending to stagger across the landing. ‘You’re not quite such a lump nowadays.’

  I kicked and protested, and high on the wine we found ourselves tangled, giggling on the bed in our little room. The fire was still alight, and we left the light off and settled in front of it. The playful mood lasted. Together we laid the eiderdown and a scratchy rug on the floor by the grate, then knelt opposite each other.

  ‘The first person to laugh has to forfeit one article of clothing,’ I said, immediately erupting into giggles.

  ‘Right,’ Angus said. ‘That’s you for a start. And the second rule
is that the other person has to take it off for them.’

  We didn’t hold back on our laughter, struggling slightly hysterically with buttons and fastenings until Angus said, ‘The only thing you’ve got left now is your specs.’

  He lifted them slowly from my face, serious now, his grey eyes close to mine. His excitement was evident and I felt suddenly awed by it, by the responsibility each of us had for the other’s happiness.

  ‘I’ve missed you. I’ve wanted you so much.’

  Our lovemaking that night was the least reserved I ever remember it. A fierce combination of need, fear and passion, not mindful of what was proper or permissible, only what was strong and right. He stayed out of me for a long time, not wanting to give himself up to it too soon, and we knelt together in the firelight, fingers on each other’s skin. The tautness of his mood excited me, his eyes closed, breathing me in, touching every part of me.

  We lay together, then, on the blanket as the fire faded. I could see only the closest things: Angus’s face, his dark hair, chest pink in the light and the shape of my breasts falling heavily to one side as I lay beside him. He ran his hand very softly along my side, again and again, thigh, hips, waist, ribs, following the deep curves. He closed his eyes. Eventually we moved to make ourselves comfortable on the bed, lying tucked tightly together.

  I woke later in the night to find him moving beside me, slight shifting movements of his head and limbs too controlled and conscious for sleep.

  ‘Angus?’

  Silence at first, then his voice: ‘I think I’m going to die.’

  Swiftly I turned over. ‘Don’t. Please don’t.’ I could see only the faint outline of his face. I held him close to me.

  ‘We don’t talk about it – none of us. Best not to. It’s not the done thing. You can’t function if you think about it, so we joke about collecting scores, flying aces and all that. None of my squadron have seen much in the way of real action of course, but we’ve heard enough.’