A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  In spite of the pacifist doctrines at its heart, and its most famous heritage, the launch of the white poppy campaign, the Guild fought its own particular corner. Attendance at the often rather sparse peacetime meetings soared; women wanted to help, and the Guild helped them to do so, often joining up with the WVS, running canteens, mending and finding clothes for the homeless, helping shocked, terrified people into shelters, and, strictly unofficially, firefighting. All these things Laura hurled herself into; she would walk the streets at night, during raids if she wasn’t needed at the canteen or shelter, her tin hat perched jauntily on her curls, looking for people in need of help. Sometimes she stood behind the men as they drove the mighty hoses into the fires, the fires that always threatened to defeat and sometimes did, ushering people away from the scene, and more than once she helped to hold a hose herself, as a man overcome with heat and exhaustion fell.

  You lived for each day as it came, everyone looked after everyone else, and you simply didn’t have time to think about yourself and the danger you were in.

  She also organised teas and concerts for convalescent men in hospital, even the occasional dance, and they were incredibly popular, restoring happiness and hope however briefly, by way of the music of the great Glenn Miller and England’s own Henry Hall, and such great dance-floor hits of the time as the Lindy Hop and the Jitterbug, imported mostly by the dashing new arrivals, the GIs. And as well there were such staider home-grown counterparts as the Palais Glide and ‘Underneath the Spreading Chestnut Tree’, greatly favoured by the King and Queen and the little Princesses. She danced herself if invited, but mostly she was content to stand and watch the girls in their pretty dresses, stocking seams drawn on bare legs with eyebrow pencils, their hair in elaborate Betty Grable curls, flirting and laughing, the men in their best suits, their drawn faces flushed with pleasure. She would often sit with the men who liked to come even if they were in wheelchairs, chatting and sometimes flirting with them, listening to their stories about the girls they had loved and left behind, and who had been to visit them in the hospital or were coming ‘any day now’. She worried about the ‘any day now’s. If Tom had been in hospital over the past three years, she would have been there with him somehow, every weekend. But she would smile at them and admire the battered snapshots that were pulled out of wallets and pockets and they would smile back and when she returned to school on Monday, exhausted, she never complained, never talked much about what she had been doing. For her, as much as it was her war effort, it was also a bargaining with fate, warding off something worse: losing Tom.

  And it had worked. Just. She had nearly lost him, but now he was safe, and properly safe for the rest of the war, for he had written to tell her he was no longer required, as he put it with a certain bitterness, but invalided out.

  Well, she would disabuse him of the bitterness, the sadness. And they would be together, properly together, perhaps married, before they had dreamed possible, their lives fused, their happiness safe. And in only twenty-four hours that happiness would begin.

  Tom lay in his bed in the hospital at Aldershot, focusing on nothing but Laura’s arrival, his mind wiped clean of anything but his love for her. He was still in a lot of pain; his breathing was a struggle and his left leg, patched together by a novice field surgeon in an operating theatre lit by a hurricane lamp while a sandstorm raged outside, and now a little shorter than the right one, ached constantly. He slept badly. Normally he dreaded the nights, but this one was a joy, because it gave him time and space to think about Laura. He could conjure her up in his head, the brown curls, the wide brown eyes, the curvily sweet mouth that she hated – ‘I look like a soppy girl in a story’ – and her small, bustling figure, the full breasts, the frankly plump thighs that she despaired of but he loved. He could hear her voice in his head too, a little deep for a girl, expressive, and capable of roaring across a room and a playground, but he somehow couldn’t quite put it all together, conjure her up and imagine her beside him. When he had been really ill and they thought he would die, he had wild, feverish dreams in which she was always on the other side of a door, standing behind him, walking away from him, never standing and smiling in front of him. But today, today he would have her, the real her, there, by his bed, holding his hand, talking to him, listening to him. It was happiness too impossible to believe.

  He had been in the hospital for three weeks and now at last Sister, the stern sister who terrified everyone, even the young doctors, had told him he could have a visitor. ‘Just one, mind,’ she said briskly, only her twinkling eyes giving her away. ‘I don’t want all your friends and family here.’

  The nurses all knew Laura was coming; he had been walked to the bathroom, helped into the bath, clean pyjamas had been found, his hair brushed, even his nails cut by his favourite nurse, Molly she was called, while Sister wasn’t looking. She wasn’t coming until three, he knew, but by nine he was ready, too excited to eat his breakfast.

  ‘If you don’t eat we won’t let her in,’ Molly said briskly.

  Six hours to go: what could he do? He tried reading; he had discovered the works of Rider Haggard and was presently deep into She. But even that failed today; it simply could not compete with thoughts of Laura and her arrival. About ten o’clock, having slept so very little, he drifted into something that was half sleep, half memory about his time in the desert, mostly the good – the camaraderie, the sense of adventure, and of knowing that what they were doing was truly vital, of Monty’s presence, so strong, so driving, the palpable relief when he arrived to take over from Auchinleck, the sense within days that they were in good hands.

  Monty had an incredible rapport with his soldiers: ‘Gather round, boys, gather round,’ he would say before some briefing of vital information he needed to impart. And the arrival of the tanks, the Sherman tanks, he could remember that so vividly, knowing they were there, knowing how many they had, hundreds more than Rommel. It had been a huge morale boost. The bad was mostly physical; the awful sand, worse in the sandstorm when it stung your face and all you could do was bury your head in your arms; it got in your tea and gave you dysentery. The heat you got used to, but never the sand. And never the lack of water, only enough to clean your teeth for days on end, not to wash – and just enough to drink.

  His job was laying mines. They would arrive at some place, as they drove forward through the desert, clear the German ones away and lay their own. He could still remember the one that had done for him and knew he always would; it had gone off a yard or so away, badly injuring his foot and hip and then torn up to his waist and burst again. It hadn’t hurt at first and he remembered being furious because he couldn’t move, couldn’t get on with his work; then he blacked out, and came to being stretchered to an ambulance. After that the pain began. Weeks, months of it, and then the illness, making him so weak he thought quite often he must be dying.

  Now he was lying in a cool, clean hospital, with no sand, plenty of water – and Laura on her way to see him. Laura. His love.

  The journey had looked fairly simple. A bus into Winchester, then a train to Aldershot. And then another bus to the hospital. She’d allowed twice the time she’d theoretically need, because trains were often cancelled, always late. She didn’t mind. She’d have crawled on her hands and knees, willingly, happily, all the way if she’d had to.

  She got up at six, so as to have lots of time to get ready, and do things like washing her hair and pressing her skirt. She’d bought a new lipstick, rather extravagantly, and she took the bottle of Yardley Lavender Water her mother and sister had given her for Christmas out of her underwear drawer – you had to store perfume in the dark to keep it fresh – and dabbed it on in all the right places. She’d read somewhere that you should apply perfume to wherever you’d like to be kissed. That was quite good guidance. Not that there’d be much scope for kissing in the hospital ward, but – well, Tom would want her to smell nice. He always noticed that, he said.

  It was a horrible day; not
that she cared. Wet and windy and cold; a classic February day. She left the house soon after eight, and half ran to the bus stop. She was lucky; the bus was more or less on time and so was the train. It was packed, absolutely packed full, almost entirely with soldiers. Aldershot was a big military town and base. The men were mostly very cheerful and noisy, delighted to be with a pretty girl, chatting her up, asking her where she was going, really interested when she told them; a few of them had mates out in the desert, they told her, and that it was Monty’s Desert Rats, as they were called, who were winning the war out there. She felt fiercely proud to be in some way representing them.

  Half an hour out of Aldershot the train stopped for almost an hour; when it started again it crawled jerkily along. The guard fought his way along the train to tell them it was a signal failure. Laura looked at her watch. Only one o’ clock – she still had two hours. According to the timetable it was only a half-hour ride.

  They arrived in Aldershot at one fifteen. The soldiers said goodbye and made their way towards a fleet of trucks waiting for them. She spotted the bus shelter and found a queue so long she was standing out in the rain. Well, never mind, she had her umbrella. She put it up; but the wind promptly blew it inside out. She decided she’d be better without it, and pulled the hood of her macintosh over her head.

  Quarter of an hour passed, half; no sign of the bus. At two o’clock someone arriving at the station on a bicycle called that it had been cancelled. Laura began to panic. She went back into the station, asked the station master how far it was to the hospital; three or four miles, he said, the other side of town. She tried to keep her voice calm, said did he have any idea when the next bus might come. He said he didn’t. Laura, most uncharacteristically, burst into tears.

  There was one thing he was quite sure of: she wouldn’t be late. Not after three years. She’d have left with hours to spare: she had told him she would in her last letter.

  Do you think I would waste one second of the time we’ll have? she wrote. I will be there, as the clock strikes three. Earlier, if they’ll let me in.

  He knew they, or rather Sister, wouldn’t. She was unbelievably strict about visiting hours. About everything, of course. Heaven help you if you spilt so much as a drop of tea on your clean sheets, or didn’t finish the disgusting food that was supposed to be so good for you, or even asked for painkilling drugs before they were due. Or tried to read under the bedclothes with a torch. He’d done that once, unable to sleep, and one of the probationers had lent him her torch. Sister, doing a late, unexpected round, caught him at it; the probationer was practically asked to leave and he was given very short shrift, told his book would be confiscated if he ever did such a thing again. And with visiting hours – well. On the dot of three, the doors opened, and at half past four they closed again, everyone having been ordered out five minutes previously. No one ever questioned it.

  At three Laura would be there. The first through the door, he knew, her large brown eyes looking for him – he had told her where his bed was, five down from the door on the right. And he would watch her, coming towards him, not in his imagination as so often she had been, but for real, the real Laura, his Laura, and he would hold out his hands and she would reach him and take them and he dared think no further.

  The station master looked at her. Pretty little thing. Her story was a sad one. He’d heard it so often, variations anyway. Small, private, personal sadnesses, frustrations, rage. Part of war, as inevitable as the bombs. Usually he shrugged, said he was sorry, nothing he could do, advised a cup of tea and patience. But somehow, this one – standing there, so pretty, so despairing, crying …

  ‘I could lend you a bike, I suppose,’ he said slowly. ‘Got a couple of spares out the back, case we have to get somewhere quickly, signal failure or something. Long as you promise to bring it back.’

  Somehow, the last hour passed: quarter to three, ten to, five to; he sat up, parade-ground straight, his heart beating violently, an odd drumming in his ears. He hardly dared blink lest he might miss a moment of her. Soon, so soon, one minute, thirty seconds … he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, waiting, waiting … Now …

  Three. A nurse opened the door. Agonisingly slowly. At last, at last … Laura, Laura …

  The bike was rusty and the pedals kept sticking. But to Laura, it was perfection: a chariot of fire to take her to Tom, to her love. She rode it a couple of times round the station yard, wobbling at first, then settling into it. The saddle was very wet; she could feel the moisture seeping right through to her knickers. She didn’t care. She could do it, she wouldn’t be late for him, she couldn’t be late for him.

  She wasn’t the first. Nor the second. Nor even the last. People poured in; but she wasn’t among them. She just wasn’t there. He felt sick. Angry. Not with her, but with the not-there-ness of her. Where? Why? Oh, but it was only five minutes. Perhaps she had gone to the wrong ward. The wrong floor. It was a big hospital. If someone could go to find her … Near to tears, he called a probationer over.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, Laura hasn’t come, she’s lost somewhere in the hospital, she must be, she wouldn’t be late. Please help me.’

  She looked at her watch, then at him, smiled.

  ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘it’s only five past three. That’s not late, it’s nothing, it’s—’

  ‘It’s not nothing to me,’ he said, ‘or to her. She’d be here, if she was all right, I know she would. Could you just see if she’s outside in the corridor, looking for the ward? Or maybe upstairs, it’s very confusing here, all the floors …’

  The nurse looked at him. He felt a tear roll down his cheek and brushed it angrily away.

  ‘Please,’ he said again.

  ‘All right.’

  It was quite a simple journey, all on the main road; she couldn’t get lost, and besides, trucks filled with soldiers kept passing her, as if leading her on her way. But it was difficult; and the rain and the wind were driving against her, slowing her down. It was already after three; he would be waiting, waiting: worried, fearful, think she wasn’t coming. How could this have happened, how could she be failing him in this way? There was nothing she could do but keep going. She pedalled on. It was turning to dusk now, and the light, the muted regulation light of the bicycle, hardly reached the road. She began to dread each lorry passing her, huge monsters, sucking her towards them, the power of them making the bike wobble. She tried not to think of anything, to save her emotional as well as her physical energy for Tom, for getting to Tom, for not failing Tom. She would get there because she must; there was no alternative.

  An animal, a dog or even a cat, ran across her path; she slammed on her brakes but they didn’t work, the bike slithering wildly on the wet road. She fell off, climbed back on, battling against tears, against panic. Keep going, Laura, keep going, it couldn’t be much further.

  She heard the roar of another truck behind her, braced herself for its passing. There was a stone in the road; she swerved to avoid it … the truck reached her …

  In the darkness, in the driving rain, on the unlit bicycle she had no chance.

  It was six o’clock when Sister came in and pulled the curtains round Tom’s bed. He did not even turn his head to look at her. He had lain for hours, white faced, still, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all: of his absolute despair, his bewilderment that she could fail him, his terror that something dreadful had happened to her, his rage that something, anything, could have robbed him of the happiness that he had waited for so long and had thought that at last he could reclaim. He had refused food and drink and even to take his medication, which lay on his bedside locker, seeing no point, no future in becoming well, or even surviving.

  ‘Well, now,’ Sister said, ‘I hear you have refused to take your medicine. That won’t do, Corporal Knelston, it simply won’t do.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘You have to take it, and you have to eat and you have to drink. Otherwise you
won’t get well.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘And you need to get well. It’s very important. Corporal Knelston, look at me, please, when I’m talking to you.’

  He ignored her.

  ‘Tom, you heard what I said. Look at me.’

  Her authority was irresistible; slowly, almost imperceptibly, Tom turned his head.

  And saw – what did he see? Behind the sternness something else: something unaccustomed, a softening, almost – no, couldn’t be, he was hallucinating now, but – almost humour, nearly a smile.

  ‘Come along,’ she said, moving over to him, ‘sit up, make an effort, that’s better.’ She adjusted his pillows. ‘Now, take these tablets, please, at once. And I’ll give you your injection.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Corporal Knelston, you need it. And then you must eat your supper. You have to get well.’

  ‘What for?’ he said, his voice almost insolent. ‘Why should I get well?’

  ‘You have a job to do.’

  ‘What job?’ he said. ‘If you mean defending my fucking country, what for, what for, for f—’

  ‘Corporal Knelston, I will not have language like that on my ward. Apologise immediately.’

  ‘I’ m – sorry,’ said Tom, genuinely shocked at himself. ‘I’m so sorry, Sister.’

  ‘Don’t do it again. Now roll up your sleeve, please, while I give you your injection. And I’ll tell you what for.’

  He rolled up his pyjama sleeve, and then looked at her again; and it was there still, the almost-soft expression, the near-smile.

  ‘Right,’ she said, as the syringe emptied, and she withdrew it, laid it on its tray and stood back. Then the miracle happened and she did actually smile. ‘I’ll tell you what you have to get well for.’ He stared at her, sitting motionless, frozen in time, fearful, hopeful, bewildered; every moment, every heartbeat, interminable.

  ‘First, so that you can get yourself into that wheelchair,’ she said and nodded towards Molly, who had pulled back the curtains and was standing beside the chair, her eyes sparkling; she was smiling broadly, and behind her were two of the other nurses, all of them smiling. ‘And then so we can take you to Ward F. There’s a young lady down there, with a broken leg, a broken arm, a fractured pelvis and a mild concussion, and she is going to need a great deal of care and help over the next few weeks. And if you promise to eat your supper when you get back, Nurse Davis here –’ she gestured at Molly – ‘will take you down to see her. I can assure you, from my personal experience, nursing is not something that can be done on an empty stomach. Corporal Knelston, do be careful, you’ll fracture your own leg again.’