by Pam Weaver
‘They’ve got lots of animals here, Shirl.’
It was only as the car came to a halt that Florrie realized that she must have drifted off to sleep in the back seat. The door opened and a nurse manoeuvred a wooden chair on wheels next to her.
‘I can walk,’ Florrie said defiantly as she stepped out of the car.
‘I’m sure you can,’ said the nurse crisply, ‘but you’re not to.’
Florrie sat down and her suitcase was placed on her lap. She turned to thank Mr Woodfield, but he was already preparing to drive away. Florrie waved her hand, but he didn’t see her. What a pity. He was such a nice man. He’d been chatty and kind until she’d nodded off. She suddenly felt orphaned and alone. The nurse took her along a covered walkway lined with flower beds. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, but Florrie felt tears close by.
She found herself in a small ward some distance from the entrance. A few women were reclining on their beds as she came in. Florrie’s bed was right at the far end of the ward, behind a set of portable screens. The room itself was full of light, and a gentle breeze from the open veranda wafted inside. The whole side of the building was made up of doors, and every one was wide open. At the nurse’s insistence, Florrie undressed and got under the covers. The same nurse then took her temperature, using a thermometer kept in a little vase-shaped container on the wall behind her bed. It had been soaking in a pink solution that tasted a bit like aniseed. She took Florrie’s pulse and recorded it on a chart that hung on a clipboard at the foot of the bed.
‘It’s best for you to lie down,’ said the nurse. ‘If you do sit up, you must be propped by pillows, and whatever you do, don’t take deep breaths.’
‘I brought some knitting,’ said Florrie, pointing to her case.
‘Absolutely not,’ said the nurse. ‘From now on, you have to live like a log. Rest is the only cure. I’ll leave the screens. The doctor will be with you in a minute.’
Florrie was left staring at the floral pattern on the screens. By the time the doctor arrived, she had noticed that whoever had sewn it had mismatched the pattern in a most irritating way.
The hospital doctor was a fresh-faced young man who looked as if he’d only just left school, but he was a lot more friendly and relaxed than the nurse. He pulled up a chair and unscrewed his fountain pen. First, he took down her particulars: where she lived, her age, her marital status and what her living conditions were like. After that, he asked questions about her health. When did she first develop the cough? How long before she coughed blood?
‘Can you tell me what your symptoms are?’
‘I have a pain in my right side,’ said Florrie, ‘and when I start coughing, it’s very hard to stop.’
He probed even further and Florrie did her best to be truthful. No, she wasn’t on any medication. She had no other problems. She didn’t smoke. She only had the occasional drink.
‘Are you more tired than usual? Have you lost weight? Do you suffer from sudden chills?’ The answer in each case was yes. ‘Do you have children?’
The sudden reminder of Shirley and Tom was like a knife in her heart.
‘It must be hard bringing them up on your own,’ the doctor sympathized. ‘Are they being looked after by a relative?’
‘They’ve just been evacuated,’ said Florrie, conscious of the catch in her voice.
‘Then I’m sure they’ll be well looked after,’ he said with a sympathy that was surprising in one apparently so young. ‘Is there anything you would like to ask me?’
She had answered all his questions as honestly as she could, but there was only one real cause for concern. Florrie chewed her bottom lip anxiously. ‘Could I have passed it on to them?’ There, she’d asked the one thing to which she dreaded the answer. If she had given Shirley or Tom this terrible disease, she’d never forgive herself. And what about Betty and Doreen? She’d been an utter fool trying to keep going and ignoring what was happening to her body.
‘It is possible to pass it on if you’ve been living in very close quarters with somebody,’ he said gently.
Florrie felt her heart sink. Oh no, please God, no . . .
‘But you mustn’t worry about that now,’ he went on. ‘You are here to get better, and the more relaxed you are, the quicker that will happen.’
He finished his examination by listening to her chest, and then he folded the screens back. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be a bit difficult for you,’ he said. ‘From now on, you must have complete rest. You can read, but you cannot sit up. Is that clear?’
Florrie nodded miserably. As she watched him walk down the ward and out through the door, his white coat flapping behind him, she sighed. Months on end of doing nothing . . . How on earth was she going to survive without going loopy?
Shirley and Tom followed Miss Lloyd and Mrs Dyer into the farmhouse. They went through a narrow porch and found themselves in a large, open kitchen, which although impressive, was also very dark. It didn’t help that the window over the sink was extremely small, or that the paintwork was dark brown and the floor dark-grey flagstone. Even the ceiling was a pale shade of tan, probably caused by smoke from the open range. Being still summer, the fire was small – just enough to keep the saucepan on the rest simmering. On the other side of the range, a kettle sang, and beneath it was a small tank with a tap in the front and a bucket underneath. Above the mantelpiece hung a rusted piece of metalwork. It looked very old and was square with a central plate; a long chain was looped over it. It seemed rather an odd thing to have as an ornament. Across the mantelpiece over the range was an iron bar with several pieces of intimate clothing airing on it: a vest, a pair of ladies’ pants and a nightdress.
A woman sitting at the large scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the room leapt to her feet and snatched the clothing down; screwing it into a ball, she threw it into a washing basket in the corner of the room. She had obviously been washing and setting her hair. She had a towel round her shoulders and several kirby grips and steel grippers in place. She turned with an embarrassed expression, but the farmer walked past.
‘Excuse my wife,’ he said, ignoring her completely. ‘This way.’
The inspection party trailed behind him, nodding a greeting to Mrs Oliver as they went. She seemed to Shirley to be a lot younger than her husband, not much older than she was, in fact.
Mr Oliver took them through a door and up the stairs. The farmhouse had an odd layout. There was obviously another room downstairs to the side of the stairs, but he didn’t open the door. Upstairs, there was a door to the left, which Mr Oliver closed as they walked by. Immediately in front of them, there was a bed under the eaves.
‘The boy can sleep there,’ he said dismissively.
Shirley saw a pair of women’s slippers peeping out from under the bed and wondered vaguely to whom they belonged.
At the end of the corridor was another room. Mr Oliver swung back the door to reveal a very pretty bedroom. It was much brighter than the corridor and decorated mainly in pinks and rose reds. The bed had a delightful floral satin counterpane, which reached to the floor. The curtains were pink with a frilly pelmet in the same material. On the washstand stood a jug and bowl with red and white roses all over them, and beside a wooden chair there was a large mahogany wardrobe. Shirley held her breath. It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen in her life, and this was to be hers for as long as they stayed?
Mrs Dyer and Miss Lloyd seemed pleasantly surprised. ‘Very nice, Mr Oliver,’ said Mrs Dyer. ‘Shall we go back downstairs to discuss the details?’
Everybody traipsed back downstairs. Mrs Oliver had covered her head with a scarf, tied turban-style. The kitchen table had been cleared of hair-washing paraphernalia, and six cups and saucers stood in their place.
‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Oliver,’ said Mrs Dyer, ‘but I’m afraid we won’t be stopping. Miss Lloyd is anxious to get back to her aged aunt.’
The adults sat at the table while Shirley and Tom looked on.
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br /> ‘There’s your government permit,’ said Mrs Dyer, pushing a piece of paper across the table to Mr Oliver. ‘Take that to the post office and they will issue you with your payment book. You get eight and six per child. Any medical problems, show them this’ – she handed him two cards – ‘and all medical expenses appertaining to the child in question will be met.’
Mr Oliver stuffed them both in his wallet.
‘We begin school at nine o’clock on Monday,’ said Miss Lloyd. ‘Please make sure the children are on time. We finish at four.’ She turned to glance at Mrs Oliver. ‘Any problems, please see me.’
They stood to shake hands. ‘The children should have a packed lunch with them for a few days until we can sort out a hot meal at lunchtime,’ said Miss Lloyd.
‘Which comes out of my pocket, I suppose,’ Mr Oliver mumbled.
‘Your government grant begins from this moment, Mr Oliver,’ Mrs Dyer said stiffly.
Miss Lloyd turned to Shirley. ‘I hope you will make the most of this opportunity,’ she said, ‘but make sure Tom doesn’t wander off into any danger.’
‘I will,’ said Shirley. She was already imagining herself in that beautiful room.
With the adults gone, Mrs Oliver motioned for them to sit at the table and she dished up a plate of stew. Shirley and Tom didn’t like to say but they weren’t all that hungry. However, they made a valiant attempt at the meal out of politeness.
‘Where do you come from?’ Mrs Oliver asked.
‘Canning Town,’ said Shirley. ‘It’s right by the docks.’
Mrs Oliver nodded. It seemed odd that she was married to such an old man. Mr Oliver must be at least forty, but his wife only looked about nineteen or twenty, just a few years older than Shirley herself. Mr Oliver wasn’t even nice-looking. As she stood over them to take their plates, Shirley noticed that under her wrap-over apron, Mrs Oliver’s tummy was very rounded. She was having a baby.
As they cleared up, Mr Oliver came back. His wife ladled a huge portion of stew onto a deep plate and he sat down without a word. Hunched over the plate with a spoon, he steadily demolished the lot, while Mrs Oliver did the washing-up in the sink. Remembering her manners, Shirley helped herself to a tea towel and began to dry. Afterwards, Mrs Oliver made a pot of tea and they all sat down again. Tom remained motionless in his chair until quite unexpectedly, Mr Oliver gave a loud, rumbling belch and then he looked up at Shirley. She looked away quickly, hoping and praying that Tom wouldn’t make some inappropriate remark that would get him into trouble. Their mother disapproved strongly of belching and any other bodily noises, especially at the table or in company.
Mr Oliver looked at his watch. ‘Time you young ’uns was in bed,’ he announced.
They all got to their feet, and picking up her case, Shirley headed for the stairs.
‘Not that way,’ Mr Oliver barked. ‘You’m sleeping out here.’
‘Oh, Gil, you can’t,’ his wife said quietly.
He turned sharply. ‘You hush your mouth, woman. I does what I likes in my own home.’
‘But you showed Mrs Dyer upstairs,’ she said.
‘Nobody sleeps in Elizabeth’s room.’
‘What if they report you?’
Mr Oliver banged his fist on the table, making the cups rattle. ‘I told you to hush up, Janet,’ and giving Shirley and Tom a long stare, he added coldly, ‘They’ll keep quiet if they knows what’s good for them.’
Shirley’s heart was thumping, and Tom began to sway from side to side, the way he always did when he was confused or frightened.
Mr Oliver walked towards the porch. ‘Come on.’
Shirley and Tom followed him out of the kitchen and into a scullery at the other end of the porch. The temperature had dropped considerably. They walked past a copper boiler and a large mangle. He took them to another door and pushed it open. Inside a small oblong room were two low wooden beds complete with army-issue blankets. The walls were bare brick, and there were huge cobwebs on the single bare lightbulb hanging from the high ceiling.
‘You want us to sleep here?’ Shirley squeaked.
‘You got a problem with that?’ Mr Oliver challenged.
Shirley did some quick thinking. He was the adult; she was the child. She was miles from home and in a strange place. If she stalked out, which was what she wanted to do, where would she go? And what about her brother? With animals all around him, he’d most likely refuse to come with her. ‘I’m not allowed to undress in front of my brother,’ she said haughtily.
The farmer disappeared.
Tom sat on one of the beds. ‘I bags this bed, Shirl,’ he said.
Shirley looked around. This was awful. The room was completely bare. It seemed to have been some sort of storeroom at one time. There was something smeared on one of the walls. If Shirley didn’t know better, she would have sworn it was blood. High on the ceiling, there was a large meat hook. Mr Oliver must have hung carcasses or something in here, and now he was proposing that it become their bedroom! The wooden door didn’t even come all the way down to the floor. There was a gap of a foot or more at the bottom. It wasn’t too bad now, but if they were still here at Christmas, they might as well be out in the fields for all the shelter it would give them from the cold.
Five minutes later, Mr Oliver came back with a piece of rope and two more blankets. Shirley watched in horror as he rigged up a blanket wall between the two beds.
‘There you are, Miss Fussy-Pants,’ he said, leaving the room. ‘The lav is outside. Sleep well.’
Shirley sat staring at the blanket wall for some time. She could hear Tom on the other side getting ready for bed and climbing in.
‘I like being here, Shirl,’ he said. ‘I like all the animals.’
Eventually, Shirley got ready for bed and after a trip to the outside lavatory, climbed in. Her mood shifted from misery to anger. How dare Mr Oliver do this? He had no right. Tomorrow, she would tell Miss Lloyd exactly what had happened. With the light switched off, she fantasized about Mr Oliver’s arrest. ‘The worst case of child cruelty since the time of Charles Dickens,’ the judge would say at his trial. Yes, she would go first thing in the morning . . . It was only as she drifted off to sleep that Shirley realized that she didn’t have the faintest clue where Miss Lloyd was staying.
CHAPTER 6
The ward was quite large. After a troubled night, Florrie was woken up at six forty-five by the sound of the nurses bringing round the tea trolley. That was quickly followed by another nurse pulling the screens round every bed and giving each woman a bowl of water for washing.
‘Here we are, Edna,’ she heard the nurse say to the woman in the bed next to her. ‘Rise and shine.’
The nurse poked her head round the screen and smiled at Florrie. ‘I’ll be along a bit later to give you a blanket bath, Mrs Jenkins.’
‘I’m perfectly capable—’ Florrie began.
‘I’m sure you are, but you mustn’t. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Can’t I do anything, then?’ Florrie protested.
The nurse came closer. ‘I know it’s hard, but I promise you it will get better,’ she said gently. ‘These ladies have been through it and survived. You just have to tell yourself it’s only for a while.’
‘Yes, months and months,’ she said brokenly, and ridiculous as it was, Florrie felt her eyes filling with tears. For goodness’ sake, she told herself crossly, she was behaving like a child.
‘You’ll soon be well enough to live to be an old lady,’ said the nurse, ‘so what’s a few months in the grand scheme of things?’
Florrie nodded miserably. When she’d gone, Edna called through the curtains, ‘Chin up, love. You’ll get there.’
The weekend dragged by, but Florrie began to get used to the routine. After her blanket bath, she had breakfast leaning against the back rest with several pillows to support her. The meals were hearty and nourishing. She was used to grabbing a slice of toast and a cup of tea, but here she had porridge followed
by scrambled egg, and then toast and marmalade. She read, dozed and roused herself for a mid-morning cup of tea, lunch, afternoon tea and, finally, supper. The only little light relief came from her excursions to the toilet, but even then the nurses kept an eye on her to ensure she didn’t stay up too long.
By Sunday, Florrie had discovered that Edna had been living there for eighteen months. ‘I remember what it was like when I first came in,’ she told Florrie. ‘You think you’ll go mad, but you don’t.’
‘I see you’re allowed up now,’ said Florrie. ‘How long did it take?’
‘Try not to think like that,’ Edna advised. ‘Counting the days and weeks is a mug’s game.’
Florrie nodded. She was right. It was best not to get her hopes up.
‘Anyway, I’m going home at the end of the month,’ Edna told her. ‘I can’t wait to be with my Frank again.’
‘Lucky you,’ called the woman across the ward. ‘I’ve just had another bloody setback. My sputum test came back positive.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Edna.
‘Can’t be helped,’ said the woman. ‘By the way, my name is Tina. Tina Cook.’
‘And I’m Edna Poole.’
‘Florrie Jenkins,’ said Florrie.
‘You sound like a Londoner,’ said Tina.
‘Canning Town,’ said Florrie.
The first Sunday in the month was visiting day. Consequently, a noisy gaggle of people began to assemble outside the ward doors from two-thirty. At two forty-five on the dot, the nurse opened the doors and the crowds surged in. Only two people were allowed to be at the bedside at any one time, so they took it in turns to sit beside friends and relatives they hadn’t seen for a whole month. Children cried, and husbands kissed their wives’ hands over and over again, because kissing on the mouth was forbidden. Florrie took refuge in her book. No one was coming to visit her, and besides, she’d only just got here.
