by Maggie Ford
With the beautiful early summer of 1940 she spent many a free day in the corner of some field with a friend or two, dozing in the hot sunshine pouring from a cloudless sky, only too glad to think about absolutely nothing, least of all guilt at not going to see Mumsy.
That year she got home twice, the first occasion in August, the second occasion in the autumn when she ran into Matthew Ward on his way back to his unit after a week’s leave. She was amazed at the change in him. In one short year he had become more broad-shouldered, more steady-eyed. He looked taller, older, yet the ring of devilment still echoed in his voice as he greeted her.
‘Ye gods! Jenny! And every inch a nurse. You look a picture.’
‘So do you,’ she returned lightly. She wasn’t about to upbraid him for not ever writing to her again. The feeling she’d long thought dead now rose again like a bird as she regarded him.
His uniform, although still the rough khaki of rank-and-file, gave him a debonair appearance, and on his sleeve he bore the twin stripes of a corporal. He was making it there, Jenny thought with a small leap of pride in her heart for him, his own way.
‘Not yet an officer, I see,’ she said with a brave attempt at flippancy and he gave her a grin, crooked and rueful.
‘My CO suggested I put in for it. Went up before the Selection Board but got cheesed off with the stupid questions they asked. Afraid I got a bit bolshie with some silly arse of a psychiatrist there and they chucked me out. Not literally, but well, turned me down – at least for the time being.’
As he chatted, Jenny couldn’t help but notice how some of the edges of that ‘college-boy’ accent had blunted. Listening to him now, each word had a rough-and-ready tinge to it. Oddly enough, it rounded off this new Matthew to perfection – a man of action, certain of himself, a man able to fight his own fights without help from anyone. She wondered as he went on talking how his mother viewed this new person. Did it pull at her heartstrings for the boy he had once been? It didn’t pull at her own, that was certain, except to make her heart swell with pride and love for this man who stood chatting lightly, without a care in the world because he had been able to surmount each obstacle as it had come his way.
‘I expect the Selection Board will have another bash at me before long,’ he was saying. ‘The CO was damned disappointed, though God knows why. Me – I’m not sure I want to bother now. I’ve got a great crowd of mates and just now we’re too busy playing soldiers on some godforsaken Yorkshire moor for me to worry just yet about trying to become an officer.’
‘What do you do?’ she asked.
For an answer he placed a finger against his lips in a playful gesture. ‘Careless talk costs lives. Really, we just muck about out in the field with walkie-talkies, practise radio relay, get wet and tired and lost. Usually end up in the right place, eventually, then all go back to the schoolroom to learn where we went wrong. Then we all go off to the pub and forget it. It really is a load of old bull. I don’t think any of us bother to take it in except enough to keep our sergeant happy. Don’t know as I want to start seriously studying again just to be an officer. Had enough of that at college.’
He paused to regard her closely. ‘But what about you? I bet you do enough of it. A nurse, eh? Always thought you were cut out to be something like that. I think that’s why I admired you so much, Jenny. Got anyone in tow yet? Some handsome young doctor?’ There was a look in his eye that made a spark of hope leap inside her.
‘No one at the moment,’ she said, smiling, then she said something utterly stupid before she could stop herself. ‘I don’t have the time.’
‘Me too.’ He gave a low chuckle. Had she disappointed him? ‘Having too good a war to get roped in. Women tell you too much what and what not to do. I’m free for the time being. But you never know, do you?’
He broke off and on a sudden thought crooked his arm and tugged back the sleeve of his overcoat to glance down at his wristwatch, the gold one which he had told her last year had been given him by his father’s sister for his twenty-first. ‘Ye gods! Got to go, Jenny. If I miss my connection I’ll get put on a charge for being late. Cheerio then. And take care of yourself.’
‘You too.’ Dismally, she was aware she had blown the one chance she might have had of his asking her for a date, or even if he could write to her. On sheer impulse born out of desperation she leaned forward and laid a kiss full on his lips. Expecting him to pull away she was surprised by his arm coming around her, the kiss being held, and it was she who broke away in a fluster, taken off guard by the strength of his lips on hers, there in the street.
‘Like you said,’ she burst out idiotically, ‘you’ll be late.’
He nodded, seeming to gather his wits. ‘Yes, I will. I’ll write to you, Jenny.’
He seemed so tremendously happy as he went on his way. Rosy from his promise, the pressure of his lips still felt on hers while her own foolish confusion mocked her, she watched him go, shouldering his small pack, his step jaunty. War hadn’t touched him at all. The terrible events of Dunkirk, of desperate men with their backs to the sea until the armada of small boats had come to their rescue, had passed him by. If anything, she had seen more of conflict than he.
A fleeting vision of her part in it passed through her mind, days and weeks compressed into seconds as she watched Matthew’s departing figure. A once-quiet, smoothly running hospital suddenly filled with a consignment of casualties from those beaches. A first-year student nurse thrown into the deep end trying to cope with a picture of defeat, the exhausted, the filthy, the torn bodies, her first-ever experience of war at its most vicious, all the worse because her life as a student nurse only the previous day had been so sedate.
Surrounded by that upheaval, she had cooked porridge, cut mounds of bread and butter, helped undress those who passed out into sleep the moment they were left alone, sometimes just where they stood. She had washed the wounded, tried not to weep over the dying or turn away as gangrenous or maggot-infested wounds were uncovered, and had wished to God she had been qualified to do more than just assist and cut bread while those skilled medical teams operated on the suffering. And the June sun had shone on.
She saw Matthew turn, throw her a careless wave. She waved back, smiled. No ghosts of dead and dying comrades, no splattered bodies and shattered limbs haunted his vision. He had continued, as he’d said, to play at soldiers in the safe environs of a Yorkshire moor. Pray God, Jenny thought as she waved, heartened by his promise to write to her, there would never be need for it to be otherwise.
For a week as he took orders, drilled, cleaned his equipment and uniform free of moorland mud and grass knowing that next day they’d need cleaning all over again, Matthew thought of Jenny Ross and the kiss she had given him. No mere friendly one. He’d always had a sneaking suspicion that underneath that touch-me-not exterior she’d always presented, she had been in love with him. That kiss had proved it, but even then she had broken away before it had had a chance to develop, becoming all formal again, telling him he’d be late back.
Each time he thought about it, he found himself shaking his head in disbelief, found himself wondering about the feeling it had promoted, musing about the girl herself.
Her nurse’s navy-blue coat had suited her colouring. Hair, burnished to old gold by August sunshine, still flared despite being drawn into a neat roll behind her ears; it made her look pretty really. He’d never noticed before. Probably the uniform? Not as leggy as he’d once thought her, not so overwhelming and always ready to help everyone. That had always been her trouble. She’d seemed more at ease. She’d make someone a wonderful wife one day.
The thought brought an unexpected pang deep inside him, rather like a longing. He’d write to her again, definitely. In the past she’d always been too much of a managing person to be thought of in any other way than as a friend. Back in those careless days he had much preferred girls who liked to lean on a man rather than have a man lean on them. Jenny had never leaned on anyone. Perhaps she’d
changed, had grown less independent. Perhaps it would be nice to find out. At the thought a small ripple of excitement made itself felt in the pit of his stomach.
Sitting on his bed cleaning his equipment after a day on some muddy moor, he found himself wanting to find out, thinking about her, her life. Yes, when this bloody training allowed him a moment to himself, he would write. Good to have a girl to write to. He hadn’t got her hospital address but her mother could forward it on. And when he next came home on leave …
Chapter 5
He had meant to write. But that weekend, with the Army’s usual lack of forewarning, his whole unit found itself transferred to a camp just outside Birmingham. With all the excitement that went with it, writing to Jenny had to be put to one side. That week he had a lot to do, settling in, and the following Saturday when he and a few mates wangled an evening pass into Birmingham, it was shelved again. But he would write, he told himself as he picked up his pass. He still felt good about her.
Cadging a lift in the back of an Army truck to save a bus fare, the group split up to find their own way to whatever part of the city they sought for a few hours’ pleasure. Matthew found a dance hall near the town centre. Obviously popular, it was packed, the floor crammed with couples, girls in bright dresses, men in uniform, a tight kaleidoscopic mass gyrating slowly to a strict-tempo waltz by a top-quality band.
‘We’ll slope off then, see what talent there is.’ Once the last two mates with him moved away, Matthew found himself alone, already losing interest.
‘See you later,’ he muttered to himself, for they had already melted into the crowd. He didn’t know why he felt so despondent. Jenny crossed his mind briefly, though why, he couldn’t say. She had never excelled as a ballroom dancer. She knew how to dance, but she was better at sports like swimming and badminton and tennis. So why this odd pang thinking of her here in this unfamiliar dance hall? Yes, he was feeling at a loose end at this moment. He would write to her when he got back to camp.
What he needed now was someone to take away this unaccustomed loneliness he was experiencing. With an effort he perked himself up and surveyed the crowd, as his mates were doing a little way off.
Not much was here except for one petite dark-haired girl at one of the far tables, visible now that the floor was clearing from the waltz just ended and the lights were coming back up. She was with a Marine. Yet the way they were leaning away from each other, not talking, conveyed that she might not be with the Marine for much longer. Matthew took heart, began to feel better. She’d do.
‘Found anyone yet, Matt?’ Dave, one of his mates, was back, himself still looking for a likely partner.
Matthew nodded towards the girl and drew a knowing chuckle from Dave as he followed the direction of the nod. With the remark, ‘Didn’t take you long, then,’ the stockily built Dave prowled off on another search.
Alone again, but this time feeling somewhat better, he fished into the breast pocket of his khaki battle blouse and pulled out the silver cigarette case his sister had given him; he had almost forgotten his twenty-first, it seemed so far away. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against one of the pillars at the entrance to the large hall and inhaled slowly. He needed to summon up some sense of nonchalance, and, surrounded by a protective cloud of smoke which he was exhaling, he found it.
He seldom needed courage to approach any girl, even when she was with a partner. One could soon calculate whether the partner was steady or merely casual and act accordingly. But that pale oval face set in a mass of luxurious dark hair, hair that even from here contrasted startlingly against the simple yellow dress she wore, brought an odd trepidation that he could not shake off. Suddenly it seemed very important that he should. Jenny, with her fiery hair and her straightforward manner, faded a little as he began his slow walk towards the girl with the Marine.
As if sensing his approach, hardly had he taken half a dozen steps than the girl turned her head towards him. Her lips broadened into a tiny smile, its message unmistakable. She had been looking thoroughly bored, but already the bored look had fled, leaving hope in its place. Matthew’s heart lifted. It might not be such a bad evening after all. He threw a glance at her partner as he drew nearer. No wonder she was bored. The guy’s face sported a mass of ripening acne. Other than that he could probably be classed good-looking, but in his present condition he couldn’t be very savoury to her.
Matthew stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on one of the tables he passed, bringing a surge of interest from the hopeful ring of girls around it, each young eager face looking up in brief anticipation of being asked for the quickstep now being struck up by the band.
The dark-haired girl had turned away from him, seeing him bend forward towards the table, assuming she hadn’t been the object of his desire after all. He saw a small upward-tilted nose and lips carrying just a little too much bright red lipstick but which now possessed a most becoming little pout. Why did he suddenly feel so shaky?
Matthew took a deep breath and walked the last few paces as nonchalantly as he could. It was the fate of all faced with the prospect of asking the girl of their choice for a dance, especially if she struck them as ravishing, to feel at least a fraction nervous, alive to the possibility of an abrupt turndown, having to walk away as though it hadn’t mattered to them in the least. He had hardly ever suffered from that, but this time, inexplicably, he had joined the ranks of the nervous, at the last minute losing his nerve.
Pausing in front of a wide-eyed blonde, her hair dragged into what was currently called a victory roll, he offered her his hand, at the same time executing a casual tilt of his head towards the rapidly filling dance floor. In a trice the blonde was on her feet, almost knocking over her port and lemon in her haste. Seconds later he was winging her away across the floor, choosing one of the gaps that still remained between the fast-moving couples. To his relief the blonde danced well. Conscious of the eyes of the dark-haired girl following his progress, he couldn’t have borne someone who might have hampered his steps.
‘You’re ever such a good dancer,’ came the light words whispered into his ear, to which he nodded absently.
He had no need to be told he was a good dancer. He’d always gained pleasure from it, from being watched, stretching his talents to the full. Yet it had become imperative to put his present partner through every intricate movement of the quickstep he knew, so that those dark eyes watching him would know he was good. Though God knows why that should matter.
A disconcerting thought came. What if she were only mediocre? All this weaving and twirling could frighten her off. Immediately he moderated his steps – the floor was becoming too crowded for showing off anyway – and fell to making occasional light-hearted smalltalk with his partner.
The ending of the quickstep came as something of a relief. Escorting the blonde back to her seat, he made for the bar and the safety of those hovering males who, despite the romance of their various uniforms, hadn’t yet felt inclined to leave their kind and ask for dances, and couples having already found a partner for the evening – perhaps, he grinned, for life.
Yet for all the press of people, he could still sense the dark-haired girl’s eyes watching him, and he found his need to know more about her pushing away that last-minute reluctance he had felt.
For the past half-hour the dark-haired girl had sat out through dance after dance, feet tapping under the table as she watched the couples, uniforms and dresses melting together as one, moving around the floor.
Susan Hopkins cast her escort a contemptuous glance. Apart from one visit to the bar for a pint of black-and-tan for himself and a small port and lemon for her, he hadn’t moved out of his seat the entire evening.
He had cut such a dashing figure in his dark blue Marines uniform when she’d first met him last week: tall, broad, the briefest scarring on his face from an old outbreak of acne giving it a certain rugged look. She had felt proud to be on his arm. They had gone to the pictures, the cheapest seats, but he’d exp
lained he hadn’t drawn his pay yet and she was ready to forgive him. He had asked to see her again, but this evening instead of his gorgeous dress uniform, he had turned up in this horrid khaki thing. It diminished the aura of romance, of the debonair. Not only that, but the dormant acne had run riot during the past week she hadn’t seen him.
She’d never been endowed with a strong stomach for unsightly things like suppurating pimples or nasty-looking cuts and bruises. Any physical defect aroused squeamish sensations. It was just as well, she thought watching the dancers, that he hadn’t taken her on to that floor – being so close to those yellow-headed pimples would have made her positively sick. Most certainly there’d be no goodnight kiss, that’s if she could get out of his taking her home at all. Already she was rehearsing a polite farewell, this date definitely their last.
The previous waltz had been in full swing, the lights dimmed, the faceted crystal orb in the centre of the ceiling flicking sensuous rainbow flecks over the dancers. Suddenly, she had felt an explicable compulsion to turn her eyes towards the hall entrance.
Among the slick RAF uniforms, the rakish body-hugging navy blue, the officers’ smooth attire, the soldier’s khaki battle dress was unspectacular. The man it clothed, however, made it look as superior as any officer’s as he leaned with casual grace against one of the dance hall’s pillars. She saw him reach into his breast pocket, extract a cigarette case; with growing interest watched him light a cigarette, his head bent for a moment over the flame. It was then he looked at her, directly, just as she was sure he’d done earlier, which had caused in her that odd need to turn. It was as though he had actually spoken to her. When their gaze met across the clearing dance floor, she had looked quickly away, filled with embarrassment.
