Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  Small as her role might have been, Jane was proud to be a part of such a noble establishment, and she was a good nurse. Strong, practical and efficient. Dr Chisolm himself had openly sung the praises of his daughter’s best friend.

  ‘We need your kind more than ever these days, Jane,’ he’d said. ‘Resilient young women with strength of character – there’s no place for the squeamish in a war hospital.’

  Since the influx of heavy casualties from Dunkirk, Jane had assisted in numerous amputations and she knew only too well what he meant. There had been several nurses, and even interns, a good deal older and more qualified than she, who, close to fainting, had been forced to leave the operating theatre.

  Arthur Chisolm, too, worked around the clock most days at the Royal Victoria, tending patients at his Chisolm House consulting rooms one morning a week, and making rare house calls only when the need was urgent.

  On occasions, when they were leaving the hospital at the same time, he would drive Jane home and they would chat about the events of the day. Jane was like a second daughter to Arthur.

  ‘I hear you’ve made our Captain Thackeray your special case, Jane,’ he said one evening as he opened the car door for her.

  It had been two weeks since Martin Thackeray had regained consciousness and Jane had indeed made a daily habit of spending her morning tea break chatting to him, but she didn’t want Dr Chisolm to feel that she was favouring one patient above the many others she tended.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, Dr Chisolm,’ she said, feeling herself flush, ‘I didn’t mean to single him out, it’s just that he sometimes seems …’

  ‘No criticism was intended, my dear,’ the doctor assured her. ‘Your visits obviously do him the world of good, he’s making excellent progress.’ He started the engine and the car set off down the tree-lined driveway of the Royal Victoria. ‘But it will be a lengthy road to recovery for Captain Thackeray, and a friend is just what he needs so far from home.’

  Jane knew that Martin’s home was in Aberdeen, he’d told her so. ‘I served in the parish there before I joined the army,’ he’d said. She hadn’t known that Captain Thackeray was a minister, but when she’d thought about it later, it had come as little surprise to discover that he was a man of the cloth.

  Martin Thackeray was highly educated, having graduated from St Andrew’s Presbyterian College and the University of Edinburgh with doctorates in both medicine and divinity. Capable of serving two purposes, the Reverend Dr Martin Thackeray was quickly welcomed into the army, given captain’s rank and, in 1939, sent to France as a chaplain with the British Expeditionary Force.

  He spoke little to Jane of the action he’d seen, but it was obvious that the scars ran deep. ‘I know it’s a just cause for which we fight,’ he said to her one day, ‘and that good will win over evil, as it must.’ He said it a little too strongly, as if it was something which needed declaration. ‘But the cost is so shocking.’ She watched as the intelligent grey eyes clouded with anguish. ‘So very, very shocking. One sometimes wonders …’ His voice trailed off and he became despondent.

  On his bad days and nights when the dreams and images returned with a vengeance, Martin found his faith severely undermined. How could it happen? How could God allow it to happen? Then he would try to shake himself out of his torpor. Who was he to question the will of God?

  Jane was often his saviour during such moments of crisis. Recognising his despondency, she would talk about her own childhood and encourage him to talk about his. His parents were English and he spoke of them fondly. His father had been a Presbyterian minister, he told her, ‘retired now’, and they’d moved to Edinburgh when he was twelve.

  ‘That explains the accent,’ Jane said. Martin had a beautiful voice, and she loved his soft Edinburgh burr. She could have listened to him all day. ‘I thought you were Scottish.’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘it’s a wee bit confusing at times. I’m really not sure whether I’m a Scot or an Englishman, and I have to be careful who I say that to – some would find it a positively sacrilegious statement.’

  It was only when Jane had left to continue her rounds that Martin would realise just how successfully she’d distracted him and, as the days turned into weeks, just the sight of her became enough. The moment she entered the ward his physical pain and mental torment seemed to magically lift.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he’d say lightly, ‘it’s my angel of mercy, Jane Miller.’ It became a running joke, and she always laughed in reply, unaware that deep down he was deadly serious. Jane Miller was, without a doubt, his personal angel. She was a symbol of goodness in the delicate and threatened world of Martin Thackeray.

  ‘What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation. Upon it depends our own British life and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire.’

  It was a fortnight after the retreat from Flanders, and France had surrendered. Throughout the British Empire, families huddled about wireless sets to listen to the stirring words of the recently appointed Prime Minister, Winston Churchill.

  ‘The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us now. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands …’

  In the wards of the Royal Victoria Hospital, wireless sets were tuned to Churchill’s address, and as Jane sat beside Martin’s bed, she felt him take her hand. She was comfortable with the contact and, together, hands clasped, they listened in silence.

  ‘But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age, made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.’

  In the downstairs front drawing room of Chisolm House, Arthur, Alice and Phoebe Chisolm gathered about the wireless set and with them, listening intently, was the rest of the household. Ron Miller had been called in from the garden and stood in his socks, having left his gardening boots in the laundry. Beside him were Enid the maid and Dora the cook, and beside them was naval Lieutenant James Hampton. Arthur had recently decided to accommodate servicemen at Chisolm House, billets being in short supply throughout the borough. And, having known the Hampton family who had lived locally until Commander William Hampton’s transfer to the Admiralty, Arthur had been only too happy to welcome twenty-three-year-old James into his household. Young James had served aboard the HMS Grenade which, along with five other British destroyers, had been sunk in the evacuation of Dunkirk. Although not wounded, he had been badly shaken by the events and consequently granted a month’s shore leave. Ensconced comfortably in his upstairs bedroom, James felt secure in the warmth of Chisolm House.

  ‘Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say, “This was their finest hour”.’

  The assembled company at Chisolm House listened solemnly as Churchill concluded his address before the House of Commons and, via the power of the wireless, to the entire British Commonwealth.

  The worst is about to come, Arthur Chisolm thought, may God help us all. ‘I must be off to the hospital,’ he said. He’d completed his morning’s consultations and he was far more needed at the Royal Victoria. ‘Don’t delay dinner for me,’ he said to his wife, ‘I may be late.’

  It was the same most days, he was rarely home for dinner, but Alice appreciated his instructions; she liked a well-ordered house. She nodded to Dora, who in turn nodded to Enid and both of them disappeared to the kitchen whilst Alice, as always, saw her husband to the front door. As she did so, she noted James and Phoebe once again in deep conversation as they so often were these days.

  Alice had initially had her doubts about the billeting of servicemen
at Chisolm House – God alone knew what riff-raff might end up under their roof – but a young officer like James Hampton from a good family background was a different matter altogether and she was glad now that she had not openly opposed her husband’s suggestion. Phoebe was hardly likely to meet eligible bachelors at the Wykeham House School where she taught reading and writing three days a week to the junior students, and James Hampton was a young man with prospects of both a promising naval career and an inheritance.

  Alice had baulked at the idea of her daughter teaching, but Phoebe had been insistent. There was a wartime shortage of teachers, she’d said, and she’d been honoured to be called upon by her old school. After all, she could never take up nursing as Jane had done. ‘I don’t have the spine for it,’ she’d laughed, and this way she was serving a purpose. Besides, she was bored doing nothing.

  Alice’s attempts at dissuasion had had little effect upon her wayward daughter and, as was to be expected, Arthur approved Phoebe’s decision. Exasperated with the two of them, Alice Chisolm had curbed her frustration. ‘Whatever you think fit, dear,’ she’d said to her husband.

  She was now delighted that young James Hampton appeared smitten with her daughter. Arthur, as usual, hadn’t noticed a thing, but the lad was even painting Phoebe’s portrait, which, to Alice, signalled an interest far beyond mere friendship. She had hinted as much to her husband from the outset.

  ‘James is keen to paint Phoebe’s portrait,’ she’d said meaningfully.

  ‘Yes, he mentioned as much to me. I think it’s an excellent idea,’ Arthur had replied, missing her point entirely. ‘He’s most passionate about his painting, he told me so. Wants to become an artist after the war, he says.’

  ‘Good gracious me, and give up a promising naval career?’ Alice was shocked. ‘How ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, it would be a little foolhardy, I agree, but then if the boy has talent …’

  ‘It would break his father’s heart. Heavens above, Arthur, he might even be disinherited.’

  ‘Oh I doubt that, my dear.’ Arthur wondered why his wife was so upset. He hoped she wasn’t going to make an issue of the subject, he really didn’t want to be disturbed. It was Sunday, the one day he had to himself, and he was seated at his escritoire in his study deeply ensconced in the Daily Echo. But he didn’t wish to offend his wife, so he said by way of mollification, ‘It’s probably just a passing fancy.’

  ‘I should certainly hope so.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ She seemed satisfied with that and he returned to his newspaper.

  It was a preposterous notion, Alice decided, and she put it out of her mind. The painting of Phoebe’s portrait was the act of a lovesick young man, and she didn’t oppose the project at all. James was quite obviously courting her daughter, and it was an excellent opportunity for the young couple to be alone together.

  ‘When are you going to show them, James?’ Phoebe asked, aware of her mother’s lingering glance as she left the room.

  ‘Soon,’ James hedged again as he had for the past two days. ‘I told you. Soon.’

  ‘But it’s finished and it’s wonderful. Jane’s coming to dinner tomorrow, can’t we show it to them then?’ Phoebe couldn’t wait for Jane to see the portrait.

  ‘There’s a bit of touching up to be done yet, I want to be sure.’

  James was sure. He was as sure as he possibly could be that it was the finest work he had ever done. The portrait of Phoebe Chisolm had consolidated his belief in his talent and he was now more determined than ever that, when the war was over and he had fulfilled his duty, he would leave the navy and go to Paris to study. But he was faced with a dilemma. He longed for Arthur Chisolm’s opinion. Dr Chisolm, whom he very much admired, owned many excellent works and had a fine eye for artistic talent. But, on seeing the portrait of his daughter, would the good doctor recognise his betrayal? James was riddled with guilt. He was convinced that he had captured, in the eyes of the portrait, not only Phoebe’s powers of seduction, but his own naked lust. If it was so readable to him, surely others could see it.

  Phoebe looked at him knowingly. She was aware that his guilt tortured him, just as she was aware that, the moment she beckoned, he would succumb. ‘Shall we have another sitting?’ she asked. ‘You can finish the touching up today and we’ll show them tomorrow.’ She didn’t bother lowering her voice and her tone was quite innocent, but the innuendo was scandalous.

  James glanced at the door through which Alice Chisolm had just disappeared.

  ‘Oh come along, James,’ Phoebe laughed as she took his hand. ‘The light is perfect, it’s your favourite time of day.’ And she led him from the drawing room, through the kitchen where Dora and Enid were working, and out the back door to the stables.

  The huge wooden doors were open, channelling a shaft of light from the overhead sun into the open space of the stables. She ran ahead and stood there, right in the centre of the pool of light, then turned to look back at him teasingly. He was powerless to do anything but follow.

  It was how he’d first seen her, that morning less than three weeks ago when he’d arrived at Chisolm House. Recalling the house from his youth, he’d wandered down the side driveway to admire its various perspectives, taking from his greatcoat pocket the small sketch pad and soft pencil he always carried. He’d circled to the rear of the house and that’s when he’d seen her. Caught perfectly in the shaft of light which poured through the open stable doors. She hadn’t heard him, despite the crunch of his service boots on the dusty stone courtyard. Or rather, if she had heard him, she’d chosen to ignore his presence. She appeared to be staring up at the roof. He walked to the stable doors. She continued to ignore him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She turned her head, neither startled nor frightened, and as she did, the light caught the movement in her auburn hair. Then she smiled, her eyes and her skin radiantly alive in the magical light. She was breathtaking.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re James Hampton.’ She held out her hand and was about to cross to him.

  ‘Please don’t move.’

  He said it with such urgency that Phoebe froze. ‘Why on earth not?’ she demanded.

  ‘The light’s perfect,’ he said, sketching frantically. ‘You look wonderful.’

  ‘Oh,’ Phoebe was always vulnerable to flattery, particularly from good-looking young men, ‘that’s nice.’ She gave him a dazzling smile by way of thanks.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘excellent.’ Her eyes were so seductive, he thought. What colour were they? Blue? Green? He couldn’t tell. He must paint her whilst he was here at Chisolm House. He hoped she’d agree to sit for him.

  ‘We’ve met before, you know.’

  ‘Have we?’ he responded vaguely. ‘Can you turn sideways and look up the way you were doing? Yes, that’s it. Stay like that for a moment and then turn back to me, I want to get the movement of your hair.’

  Phoebe looked up at the trapdoor. She’d been reliving her childhood days with Jane and their secret place up there. She’d lost the battle with her father about the stables. ‘We need convalescent accommodation for hospital patients, Phoebe,’ he’d said, ‘and the renovation is to commence before the end of the month.’ Accustomed to getting her own way, Phoebe had sulked for a while. The only other time she’d not got her way with her father had been as a child when he’d refused her a horse, and she’d sulked then too. But Arthur Chisolm had stood firm regarding the stables and she’d finally resigned herself. At least he’d agreed that the wooden doors should stay; he didn’t wish to destroy the aesthetics of the place, he’d said.

  ‘We met when I was ten,’ she continued, her eyes fixed on the trapdoor. Then she turned to face him. ‘I’m Phoebe Chisolm.’

  ‘No, not your whole body,’ he said, ‘just your head. Turn away and look up again, then back to me with your head.’

  Phoebe did as she was told, but she was getting rather bored now. ‘You were thirteen,’ she said. ‘
It was just before you left Fareham.’

  ‘Phoebe Chisolm,’ he said, concentrating on the page as she turned her head. ‘Yes, I remember.’ But he didn’t really. ‘Can you smile again?’ She’d stopped smiling.

  ‘No.’ She walked over to him. ‘May I look?’ He handed her the sketch pad. She stared at the drawing for a moment or so and when she looked up her smile was one of genuine admiration. ‘You’re really very good, aren’t you, James Hampton?’

  Without the distraction of his sketch pad and the objective view of the subject he’d been drawing, James was caught off guard. Her smile was so bold. It was as if she was throwing out some sort of challenge.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as he took back the sketch pad. ‘Would you sit for me?’ She arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. ‘That is, if you have the time,’ he added. For some strange reason she made him feel self-conscious. ‘I’m to be here for a whole month.’

  ‘I know. You want to paint my portrait?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’d like that.’ She contemplated the proposition briefly, then grinned like an excited ten-year-old. ‘When shall we start? This afternoon? Now, if you like.’

  James laughed, she’d put him at his ease in an instant. What a mercurial girl she was. ‘I think I’d better unpack first, I left my things at the front door.’

  James was a lost man. From that day on, Phoebe Chisolm had him totally in her power.

  Phoebe’s seduction of James Hampton had been a consciously planned act. The secret conversations she and Jane had were very often about sex, and they always left Phoebe with a burning desire to discover the secret.

  ‘I’m going to have sex before I get married,’ she’d shockingly announced one day. ‘Purely sex for sex’s sake, nothing to do with love.’