Ambulance Girls

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Celia – your hands.’

  She glanced down at her hands. ‘Pain helps,’ she said, dismissively. ‘It makes me feel something.’

  Perhaps my horrified pity showed in my face, because she raised one shoulder in a shrug and said, ‘It’s proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’ asked Jim.

  ‘That I’ve not really been dead these last weeks.’ Her voice was now musing, reflective. ‘If I can still bleed, I must be alive.’ She made a sound of contempt.

  ‘What happened, Celia?’ There was no sympathy in Jim’s voice.

  ‘Let me tell it my way. This is my confession and I’ll tell it as I will.’

  ‘Tell it then,’ he said.

  ‘The raid had started in earnest so David put me on my bicycle and he wheeled me to a public shelter as I perched on the saddle. It was a nightmare. Bombs were falling close by, screaming as they fell. David was calm, kind. Protective of me.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Guiding me through hell.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I need a cigarette.’

  Jim shrugged. ‘I don’t have any.’

  When she glanced at me I said, ‘I don’t smoke.’

  She shuddered. ‘I need a cigarette,’ she repeated.

  ‘Sorry Celia,’ said Jim. ‘Just tell us what happened.’

  She drew a long breath, as if she were inhaling smoke. When she exhaled she seemed calmer. ‘When we reached the shelter he carried me inside and stayed with me throughout the raid.’ Her mouth twisted into a tight smile. ‘I saw how the women in that shelter looked at him, which surprised me. You see, I’d put him into a compartment – Jew – and I’d never really looked at him before. I’d worked with the man for months, and I’d never bothered to look at him properly.’

  The smile morphed into an expression of distaste. ‘I’m – I hate what I am.’

  Her voice faded into silence.

  ‘What happened, Celia?’ Jim’s voice was calm, expressionless.

  ‘Everything changed, once I really looked at him . . .’ She glanced up at me again, and said quickly, almost fiercely, ‘And he looked at me, and it was as if everyone else had faded away and only he and I existed in the world.’ She laughed a little, mirthlessly. ‘It sounds so very . . . trite, when you put it into words, but that’s how it started.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our affair. Our version of Romeo and Juliet. Our madness. David’s death.’

  ‘Where did you go to be together?’ asked Jim. ‘To carry on this affair.’

  She looked up at him with contempt. ‘Where do you damn well think?’

  ‘The flat.’

  ‘It belongs to a friend who scuttled away to Canada for the duration. I had a key from before the war that I had somehow never returned. It was close to the ambulance station, but far enough away to be safe.’

  ‘Safe?’

  Celia looked at Jim and her lip rose in a sneer. ‘I’m married to a well-known fascist. David is – was – Jewish. Neither of us wanted to be found out. He insisted on secrecy just as much as I did, for the sake of his parents.’ Her voice became softer. ‘Neither of us could really believe what had happened.’

  ‘Couldn’t believe that you’d fallen in love?’ Jim was looking at her intently and Celia’s face became flushed.

  ‘I suppose love is a word for it,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t entirely lust, anyway. We laughed a great deal, talked about all sorts of things. I – I craved him. He said he felt the same.’ She looked at me, a query in her eyes. ‘Is that love, do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it is.’

  ‘You must have known it couldn’t be kept secret forever,’ said Jim.

  She raised her shoulder and grimaced. ‘We were living one day at a time. We were together just over nine weeks. That has to do for a lifetime.’

  She sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘What happened, Celia?’ Jim asked.

  Again she seemed to withdraw into her memories. A shudder began at her shoulders and swept through her. When she looked at me, for the first time since I had met her I saw real emotion in her expression. It wasn’t pleasant. It was horror.

  ‘David was epileptic,’ she said to me. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why they refused him in the armed services, and why he couldn’t drive the ambulance.’

  ‘He told me about it early on, but I found it hard to believe. He seemed so – vibrant.’ Again she paused, and took a deep breath as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  ‘He had some sort of a fit,’ she said softly. ‘That night. When he fell, his head struck the side of a small table. There was blood on the back of his head. I waited with him until the convulsions had ceased and he was in a deep sleep. I checked his breathing—’

  ‘Was it stertorous?’ My words were like a sharp bark. ‘How bad was the head injury? Was he clammy to touch? Did you check his pulse?’

  She ignored me.

  ‘He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I washed away the blood, put a pillow under his head, covered him with a blanket and I left.’

  ‘You left him there on the floor?’ I was horrified, and then angry. ‘You left him?’ I repeated, in a colder voice.

  ‘I left him lying on the floor with a pillow under his head, covered by a blanket. I was already late for an important family engagement that I couldn’t miss without difficult explanations I was unwilling to make.’

  I stared at her. ‘How could you do that? How could you just leave him there? If you’d stayed then perhaps . . .’

  She made an expression of distaste. ‘Look at you, Lily Brennan, staring at me with those big brown eyes and passing judgment in that way you do. Always so willing to judge, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I’m so very middle class. I have feelings and—’

  ‘Lily,’ said Jim sharply. I looked at him and he was shaking his head at me.

  It was as if cold water had been thrown on to me. I sat for a second or two, furious that he should defend the woman who had left Levy to die alone. I looked up to glare at him, but he shook his head again and glanced at Celia.

  I followed his gaze. Celia was sitting on her chair in a pose of utter rigidity; her long neck was all ropey sinews, and her jaw clenched so tightly that her lips were pulled back almost in a snarl. When she spoke her voice was high and strained.

  ‘I had a family gathering that I had to attend and for which I was already late. David was aware that I had to rush off after – after our meeting. He had told me when we first – he told me that if he ever had a fit I should leave him to regain consciousness alone.’

  ‘Was that the last time you saw him?’ asked Jim. There was a stiff, impassive expression on his face.

  The barrister is at work, I thought, cross-examining. His manner was coolly detached. No emotion allowed in a courtroom.

  ‘No,’ said Celia. ‘I returned later that night, some time after midnight. David had told me that he would sometimes sleep for hours after a grand mal fit and I wanted to make sure that he was well.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘He was stone cold. You know how it takes some of them, as if they’re just asleep. He looked as if he was asleep, but he was dead. I felt for his pulse, shook him, tried to breath air into his lungs. None of it worked. Eventually I just sat back and looked at him. I couldn’t believe it. It was a nightmare, but it was real.’

  Although she stared at Jim, it was clear that she was seeing another scene. She seemed to squint, as if looking at something that pained her.

  ‘He was so beautiful, as if he was sleeping peacefully. I found myself holding his cold hand and repeating, over and over, Please just wake up, Please just wake up, Please . . .’

  And, at last, the dam broke. She covered her face with her hands to hide the cataract of tears as gasping sobs racked her body. Celia’s hands were white, long fingered. Beautiful hands. Only, in our line of work we couldn’t keep our nails looking pretty. Her nails were short and fain
tly lined with grime and her cuticles were as cracked as mine were.

  Her sobs slowed, and eventually ceased. She pulled out a handkerchief and mopped her eyes and face.

  ‘I am so very sorry,’ she said. She looked up at me. ‘I left him there, to die alone.’

  Jim reached over and touched her shoulder and she turned her head to look at him.

  ‘I was at the inquest, Celia. I heard the pathologist’s evidence. The blow to his head when he fell caused his death. There was a massive internal bleed. You couldn’t have saved him.’

  ‘I left him to die alone. That’s why Lily looks at me with such loathing. She’s right to do so.’

  Her eyes were red and swollen and there was a world of misery in them, but she sat up straight, shoulders back, chin up to face full-on whatever was set against her. It was her only defence, I thought. It was her carapace, her armour against the judgment of people like me, but it could not protect her from her own sense of guilt.

  I leaned towards her, as Jim had done, and she flinched slightly as I took hold of her hand.

  ‘I don’t loathe you,’ I said.

  She clutched my hand in a hard, convulsive movement and stared into my eyes.

  ‘The raiders came over when I was there with him,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t leave him again, so I stayed beside him, despite the bombs. When the place came down on us I hoped that I’d die, too. I hoped we’d be found together, both dead, and damn the consequences.’

  I imagined the scene as the raiders roared in low, the screaming swish of the falling bombs and the terror of the explosions. I wondered if Celia had been knocked unconscious for a moment before waking to the awful realisation that she had survived and Levy was still lying dead beside her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone where he was?’ I asked. ‘I mean, tell them earlier than you did?’

  She let go of my hand to sit up in her chair. Her back was straight and eyes held mine steadily. ‘When I realised that I was alive and – shockingly – unharmed, I thought it would be best to leave David to be found by the rescue crew. I thought they would find him quickly and his parents would be spared the scandal of him having been with me – Cedric Ashwin’s wife – when he died.’

  ‘But two weeks went by,’ I said. ‘I don’t see how you could leave him there for so long.’

  At this she seemed to deflate. Her shoulders drooped and her hair fell across her face as she stared down at the floor.

  ‘When there was a second bombing raid on the flat a week later and still no one found him, I thought that it was a sign that he should remain buried there. I suppose I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was when you told me about his mother that the fog cleared. I realised then that she deserved – that she should have a body to bury. So I telephoned the police.’

  Celia took a breath, pushed her hair back from her face and sat up straight in her chair. She looked at Jim.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘The coroner’s jury found his death was due to misadventure caused by enemy action,’ said Jim slowly. ‘From what you’ve told us, although death by accident is probably more appropriate, death by misadventure is an entirely proper verdict in the circumstances. I see no purpose in telling the police any of this.’

  Celia stood and began to pace the room, much as Mr Levy had done when Jim and I visited him at the Dorchester.

  ‘I was eighteen when I married Cedric,’ she said. ‘A half-formed creature, who accepted without question the views I had heard expressed around me all my life. It was this war, my work in the Ambulance Service, David . . .’

  She stopped in front of my bookcase to stare down at the books. Her hand brushed gently over my books. ‘Would you believe that David and I discussed books? We talked of books, so many things. He thought there was more to me than . . .’

  She pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin, stood tall and proud. ‘I wrote to Cedric. I told him that I would be seeking a divorce, because I no longer accept any of the beliefs he holds. I told him I would swear to my adultery.’

  The agitated pacing began again, punctuated by abrupt remarks. ‘He wrote back, says he won’t divorce me. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go back to him.’

  I drew in a shaky breath.

  ‘Levy’s parents, do you think . . .’ I began.

  She turned and came to stand in front of me. Her eyes were red and puffy, but her face was otherwise composed.

  ‘You wonder if I should tell David’s parents what really happened?’

  I gave a slight shrug. ‘I don’t know. I think if I were them I would like to know the truth. But maybe it would simply upset them to no purpose.’

  We both glanced at Jim, who seemed troubled. ‘Celia,’ he said, ‘I really don’t think that you need—’

  ‘Oh, I think I probably do need,’ she snapped. ‘We all know that confession benefits the confessor more than the one to whom the awful truth is divulged. The question is, will it help them to know?’

  I said, slowly, ‘I couldn’t sleep some nights, thinking of Levy’s horror at being caught in a raid. I’m relieved to know that he didn’t suffer.’

  She looked away, towards the bookcase. ‘And you think that Mrs Levy would find relief in that as well?’

  ‘I think she might,’ I said.

  The following day Jim took Celia Ashwin to visit Mr and Mrs Levy in their suite at the Dorchester. He then withdrew. All he could tell me when we met at his flat that evening was that Celia had stayed an hour with them and when she emerged it was clear that she had been crying.

  ‘But how did she seem?’ I asked.

  ‘Reserved as ever. Not desperate or unhappy, though.’

  ‘And the Levys?’

  ‘They thanked me.’

  ‘And that’s all you’re going to tell me?’

  ‘It’s all I can tell you. I think it went as well as it could.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I left the Bloomsbury auxiliary ambulance station the week after my attempts at spy-catching had come to such an ignominious conclusion. As I had requested, Moray arranged for me to join the Berkeley Square depot, which was one of four big posts in the London area and where Katherine was a deputy. It was very different from the little Bloomsbury station. Nearly two hundred people worked from Berkeley Square, including members of rescue and first aid squads.

  The atmosphere at the station was jolly and the personnel were as diverse as they had been at Bloomsbury, with Oxford and Cambridge graduates, artists, actors, typists, peeresses, shop girls and a man who used to run one of the smartest hairdressing salons in London.

  The station officer had worked for Cook’s tours before the war; he knew even more than Levy had about the topography of London and loved to tell stories about the city.

  Staff at Berkeley Square were expected to work twenty-four hour shifts on alternate days. Bunks were provided so we could catch up on sleep during quiet times, and food was available at any hour.

  ‘Settling in?’ Katherine joined me for lunch in the depot’s canteen a week or so after I had started there.

  ‘Actually, yes. I’m settling in better than I had hoped. I like Nella Flintcroft very much, by the way.’ Flintcroft was my new ambulance attendant, a chirpy twenty-three-year-old from Birmingham. Like me, she had been a teacher in peace-time.

  ‘Good. I thought you’d like Flintcroft. She’s brand new to the work and you can teach her the ropes. And how’s that sexy pilot of yours?’

  ‘Still around.’ I smiled. ‘And still sexy. We’re off to dinner at the Ritz tomorrow night.’

  Katherine laughed. ‘It’s become rather a joke, this dinner at the Ritz he keeps promising you. You’ve not made it yet.’

  ‘I have high hopes for tomorrow,’ I said. ‘We’ll be among the angels dining at the Ritz. Just like in the song.’

  She laughed. ‘And nightingales will sing in Berkeley Square. Tell you what, I’ll lend you my blue velvet evening gown. It’s miles too long for you, but I’ll tac
k it up and I promise it’s grand enough for the Ritz.’

  I met Maisie for lunch the following day.

  ‘It’s not nearly so much fun now you’ve left the station,’ she said. ‘I’m paired with Ashwin now.’

  I had not seen Celia since she revealed the truth about herself and Levy, and I wondered if she was avoiding me.

  ‘I can’t say I like Ashwin much,’ said Maisie. ‘I think she’s a very hard woman.’

  ‘She doesn’t give much away,’ I said, ‘but she’s not hard.’

  Maisie grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. That was unkind of me. Ashwin can’t help being so posh.’

  ‘Give it time,’ I said. ‘She’s actually rather nice when you get to know her.’

  Maisie’s look was frankly disbelieving, and I changed the subject.

  After lunch I went to the hairdresser, where I paid more than I could afford to have my hair washed and styled and my nails manicured. I wanted to look my best for dinner at the Ritz.

  I emerged from my bedroom wearing my best silk slip. I was also wearing coral lipstick, lashings of mascara and a touch of Pam’s blue eyeshadow.

  Katherine and Pam glanced up from where they were sitting cross-legged on my rug, tacking up the hem of Katherine’s evening gown by a good six inches. Katherine bit off the thread she’d been using and stood up to shake out the thick velvet skirt. I well knew that to be lent her velvet evening gown was a singular honour. It was a beautiful gown, sapphire-blue with a daringly low décolletage, straight elbow-length sleeves and a flowing skirt decorated with silver cut-out embroidery. There was silver embroidery also on the sleeves. With the girls’ help I eased myself into the gown and Katherine buttoned up the back.

  ‘How do I look?’ I gave a twirl and enjoyed the sensation of velvet swishing about my legs.

  ‘About sixteen,’ said Katherine.

  I poked out my tongue at her.

  ‘I take it back,’ she said. ‘Closer to twelve.’

  Pam glanced at her watch, and jumped up with a squeal. ‘Golly, I’d better get a move on. I’m on duty tonight with Betty.’

  ‘How is she?’ I asked. ‘I’ve not seen her for weeks.’

  ‘She’s much better. I think all she needed was to feel needed. She’s marvellous in the shelter, especially with the children.’ She laughed, somewhat sheepishly. ‘I’m simply not a motherly type. They give me the willies, those children, with all their noise and neediness and always runny noses. I hand them over to Betty and she seems to enjoy it. Everyone’s happy.’