by Maggie Craig
After his second meeting with Hitler, at which he agreed to most of the German leader’s demands, the Prime Minister spoke to the nation via the wireless:
‘How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas masks because of a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing.’
Listening to that, Eddie grew pale. When the broadcast was over, he made a grim prediction.
‘It looks as if we’re about to sell Czechoslovakia down the river. Not a very honourable course of action.’
He was right. Two days later, on 29 September, Chamberlain, Hitler, Mussolini and Daladier, the French prime minister, met at Munich. Czechoslovakia, the country whose fate was being decided, and the only democratic state left in Central Europe, was not represented. The great powers simply made a decision. The Sudetenland would be incorporated into Hitler’s Germany within the space of the next two weeks. The crisis was over.
Neville Chamberlain flew home flourishing a piece of paper which held an agreement that Britain and Germany would never again go to war with each other. It was, he told the people of Britain, nothing less than peace in our time. The tension of the long wet summer exploded into acclaim for Chamberlain. He was even nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Not everyone rejoiced. Many thought as Eddie did. Winston Churchill was one of them, describing the outcome of the Munich Conference as the blackest page in British history.
But the war everyone had feared so much had been avoided. There was to be peace, and because people longed so much for that, many of them chose to ignore their misgivings. They didn’t ask searching questions and they turned a blind eye to the shaky foundations on which the peace sat, and the cost at which it had been achieved.
It had been too close to call, and the relief was enormous. The last night of the Empire Exhibition in October 1938 gave thousands the chance to celebrate this most narrow of escapes.
Eighteen
Liz felt wonderful. Judging by the noise and laughter, so did everyone around her. Not even the fact that it was raining cats and dogs could dampen the mood. And the wet weather had some advantages. Trying to do the Lambeth Walk whilst simultaneously holding your umbrella over your head meant that it didn’t really matter whether you knew the steps or not.
You couldn’t dance properly in this size of crowd anyway. That didn’t matter either. Noisy and high-spirited, but well behaved at the same time, people were intent on enjoying themselves and marking the end of the exhibition which had meant so much to them.
They were grateful for the pleasure which the event at Bellahouston had brought into their lives: the pavilions, the displays and exhibits, the fountains and cascades, Tait’s Tower and the Highland Village, the music, the knowledge that half the countries of the world had come to this small corner of Glasgow.
It had been a bright splash of colour during one of the wettest summers on record. It had helped them forget the crisis in Europe and the worries and struggles of their own lives.
Liz felt all that. Something else too. She was counting off the weeks. She and Janet had just had it confirmed that they’d be doing their training at the Western. She could hardly wait.
There were two small flies in the ointment. One was Mario Rossi. He was here, but with a girl. He’d given Liz a wee smile accompanied by a curious little downturn of the mouth. Liz had thought it a very continental gesture. Did it signify regret?
If she were being strictly honest, she might have to admit she felt some of that herself. Not to mention a sharp little pang of jealousy when she had seen him with the other girl. And she was just a wee bit put out that despite his bitter observation the night of the Paul Robeson concert, it hadn’t seemed to take him very long to get over his disappointment.
Well, what did she expect? She had turned him down, after all. Twice.
The other minor irritation was the Honourable Miss Maclntyre. Liz couldn’t get on with her at all. Unfortunately, the girl seemed to like her. She had sought her out earlier in the evening to ask which hospital Liz had been allocated to for her VAD training and when she was due to start.
Cordelia had been delighted. She was heading for the same place at the same time. Liz had been sorely tempted to say, ‘Oh, goody,’ or perhaps, ‘Really? How frightfully spiffing!’ She managed to restrain herself.
Never mind. She was going to do her VAD training; she seemed, touch wood, to have more or less solved the Eric Mitchell problem; there wasn’t going to be a war - not this week anyway; and she was with friends. What more could she want? She resolutely ignored the wee voice in her head which whispered, Mario Rossi.
There was some romance in the air. Helen and Eddie had eyes only for each other, although things were still at an early stage. Liz had a shrewd suspicion they hadn’t even kissed properly yet. She thought that was nice, kind of romantic, like the way they were shyly holding hands tonight.
Adam Buchanan had complained vociferously about them making what he called sheep’s eyes at each other and declared that it was positively revolting. Liz wondered what Cordelia thought when he made comments like that. Eddie himself had laughed. After the disaster of his and Adam’s first meeting, they seemed to be getting on well enough tonight.
Not long after they arrived at Bellahouston in the early evening they had a spirited but amiable discussion about the exhibition and the Empire itself. Adam asserted that the British had done a lot of good in many of their colonies - introducing democracy and the rule of law and encouraging trade and commerce. The Empire Exhibition was surely a manifestation of that. Eddie, of course, disagreed with him.
They were standing around eating ice-cream in one of the refreshment tents, the rain drumming on the canvas above their heads. Eddie licked his cone contemplatively.
‘As a spectacle,’ he agreed with Adam, ‘it’s been magnificent, second to none, but its very existence is an affront to the countries we’ve subjugated and exploited. We should dismantle the British Empire and give the native peoples their countries back. With an apology,’ he added for good measure.
A hand was laid on his shoulder. It was Helen. ‘But have you enjoyed the exhibition, Eddie?’ she asked slyly.
‘Oh, aye,’ he said, his eyes creasing at the corners as he turned to smile at her. ‘It’s been magic. I’ve had a great time. I loved the kangaroo, and the big model of the sheep on the Wool Pavilion. The Palace of Engineering, too.’ He gave himself a shake. ‘Oh, and lots and lots of other things. I wish it could stay open forever.’
He looked puzzled when everyone burst out laughing at him - which only made them laugh all the more. Cordelia took pity on him, turning to Adam with a question.
‘What did you like best?’
Young Mr Buchanan pretended to give the matter some serious consideration, but Liz could see the joke coming.
‘Well,’ he began expansively, ‘I might suggest the sheer variety of the exhibits, or the innovative architecture of the pavilions.’ He paused and looked very thoughtful. ‘However, on careful reflection I think I’d have to plump for the demonstrations by the Women’s League of Health and Beauty. All those long legs and short skirts!’
Cordelia hit him.
The crowd grew larger and the weather wetter as the evening wore on. Spirits remained high, even though the final display of the exhibition gave some people pause for thought.
As the visitors watched, three aircraft staged a mock attack on Bellahouston Park. They were caught in searchlights manned by the City of Glasgow Squadron of the RAF and, of course, successfully driven off. That produced much ribald and irreverent comment.
As the countdown to the end of the event came closer, the singing grew louder, everyone swaying happily together. Eddie was right, Liz thought. It had been magic. Funny to think it was soon going to be over, in the past: something you would tell your children and grandchildren about.
She turned to say something to Helen and found that the swaying and shiftin
g crowd had separated her from her friends. She couldn’t see any of them. In the midst of a vast sea of humanity, Liz all at once felt very small and alone.
Then the lights went down. There was a great sigh of anticipation and the huge crowd fell silent.
At that very moment and to her immense relief, Liz turned and found herself shoulder to shoulder with Adam Buchanan. She could barely make out his features in the gloom.
‘All right?’ he asked, whispering the words into her ear. ‘I saw you here all on your lonesome. I’ve been trying to get through to you for the past ten minutes. All right?’ he asked again. ‘I thought you looked a bit sad.’
‘I am sad,’ she admitted. ‘Sorry to see it end.’
‘I know,’ he said, his deep voice soft in the darkness. It was absurdly comforting that he understood how she felt. ‘Would it help if I put my arm around you?’
He meant to be kind. She knew that, but she shook her head and in case he couldn’t see her properly declined verbally as well.
‘No, I’m all right, thanks. Anyway, Cordelia might object to that. Where is she, anyway?’
‘Oh, she’s somewhere about,’ he said vaguely. ‘Why would she— Look!’ A warm and heavy hand was laid on her shoulder and he turned her round to face the tower up on the hill.
Obediently, Liz looked in the direction he had indicated. With the rest of the park in darkness, the floodlit Tait’s Tower stood out like a beacon. It must, she thought, be visible miles away, from all round the city.
It only remained for two songs to be sung: the National Anthem and Auld Lang Syne. Then they saw the Union Jack on the tower being slowly lowered, and the lights on the tall structure dim.
As the lights died away completely, a disembodied voice spoke, thrilling in the velvety blackness of the wet October night.
‘Let the spirit of the Exhibition live on!’
A huge cheer went up.
‘Are you crying?’ came a voice close to her ear.
‘Y-yes!’
‘Och, Liz, you wee daftie!’ Laughing, Adam gave her shoulders a squeeze.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, pulling out from under his arm as the lights which illuminated the paths came back on and conversations started up again. ‘I’ve got such a funny feeling. More than because the exhibition’s closing.’ She shook her head, trying to banish the uncomfortable thoughts.
‘It’s trepidation,’ he said. ‘Fear of what the future might hold.’
She blinked. That hadn’t sounded like Adam’s voice. Then he looked at her and smiled. ‘You’re drookit.’
‘We’re all drookit,’ she said ruefully. A raindrop ran down her nose. She stuck out her tongue and caught it, and he laughed.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning before Liz and Eddie got home. Sadie was waiting up for them. She’d kept the fire in for their return and insisted they changed into their night clothes and dressing gowns straightaway and sit by it for a wee while to warm themselves up. She’d put a piggy - a hot-water bottle - in both their beds, too.
She brought them cocoa and fussed over their wet things and they told her about their evening, speaking in quiet voices so as not to waken their father.
Lying in bed later, Liz allowed the memory of the sights and sounds of the evening to wash over her. Trepidation. Fear of what the future might hold. But the future was going to hold peace, wasn’t it? Peace in our time.
You’re drookit. Liz smiled. She liked Adam. He was sweet. Pity about Mario Rossi, though... Yawning, she stretched her legs out. The bed was lovely and warm. She pulled the covers up over herself. Within minutes she was sound asleep.
PART TWO
1939-1940
Nineteen
Liz hung up her uniform hat and coat in the small cloakroom at the Infirmary allotted to the VADs and brought out the square of white cloth which had been carefully ironed and starched for her by Sadie the day before. Doing her best to look nonchalant, she put it over her smoothly tied-back hair, transforming the material into a cap by tying it carefully in butterfly wings at the nape of her neck.
Lifting her head again, she checked in the mirror over the washbasin. Perfect. The wee red cross was right in the middle.
‘Oh, gosh,’ came a voice, ‘you’ve done that really well. I seem to be making a bit of a dog’s breakfast of it.’
Liz turned slowly. Cordelia Maclntyre was giving her a rueful grin in greeting, her cap still a square of white cloth dangling from her fingers - a rather crumpled one at that. She must have made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to put it on.
‘Would you mind giving me a hand, Miss MacMillan? I seem to be all fingers and thumbs today. Nervous, I suppose.’
Liz found that hard to believe, but she took the scrap of cloth from her, giving it a brisk shake to try to remove the creases.
‘Bend your head forward a wee bit,’ she instructed, swinging the cloth up and over Cordelia’s short and beautifully styled hair. ‘Now turn around and I’ll tie it at the back.’
She wondered if she sounded as reluctant as she felt. Was she being churlish to resent being asked for help? To feel that she was being treated like some sort of a lady’s maid?
If Cordelia noticed anything, she certainly didn’t show it, expressing her gratitude at some length. ‘Oh, I say, that’s great,’ she said, turning her head first one way and then the other to see how she looked. Her eyes went to Liz’s reflection. ‘How clever of you. You must just have the knack.’
Liz had been practising how to tie her cap for the past week in front of the mirror on her wardrobe door. She wasn’t going to tell Cordelia Maclntyre that. She, still busy admiring her butterfly wings, looked wryly amused.
‘We almost look like real nurses, don’t we?’
Liz was forced to smile at that one. She’d been thinking exactly the same.
‘I’m sure they’ll probably knock that idea out of us, Miss Maclntyre,’ she replied, gesturing towards the cloakroom door to indicate the hospital beyond.
Cordelia hesitated and then plunged in.
‘Would you mind if I called you Liz? And would you call me Cordelia?’
‘It seems to be the done thing to use surnames,’ Liz said. That was true. It was also true that she didn’t want to be the Honourable Miss Maclntyre’s friend. They had absolutely nothing in common, after all.
Cordelia grimaced. ‘I know... but perhaps when we’re on our own? It would be friendlier. Don’t you think?’
‘Maybe. We’d better go now. We’ll be late.’
‘I’m coming,’ said Cordelia with a quick smile. ‘Just let me take a deep breath.’
Holding the door open for the other girl to follow her out, Liz was struck by a thought. Could Miss Maclntyre really be feeling as nervous as herself? She shrugged that off as swiftly as it had come to mind. That was a daft idea. People like her were born confident.
Sister MacLean, the nursing tutor from the Preliminary Training School who’d been put in charge of the VADs, initiated their training by imparting a piece of philosophy. Medicine, she told them gravely, is a science. Nursing is an art.
She also gave them two maxims. One: never go up the ward empty-handed. There was always something which needed to be transferred from one place to another. Two: come hell or high water, the patients must always come first.
As Liz had predicted, she wasted no time in letting them know her opinion of their lowly status. Fixing them with a steely glare as they sat eagerly in the lecture theatre, she delivered her verdict.
‘You may have lovely red crosses on your brows and on your breasts,’ she told them in her lilting Hebridean accent, ‘but that doesn’t make any of you nurses. Not in my book.’
‘Well,’ said Cordelia while they ate their luncheon in the nurses’ dining room, ‘it’s nice to know that you’re the lowest of the low.’ She glanced around her. ‘They seem to have thrown a cordon sanitaire around us, don’t they?’
Liz could recognize that the words were French. Sh
e didn’t know their exact translation, but she understood what Cordelia meant. The other nurses - the proper ones - were making it quite clear that the VADs were not part of their group.
‘I say,’ said Cordelia, ‘why don’t we go across to Mr Rossi’s café tomorrow instead?’
‘Where’s that?’ asked Janet Brown. Cordelia explained. Janet and the other girls at the table enthused about the idea. It would, Liz supposed, look a bit odd if she didn’t go with them.
Aldo Rossi greeted the six young women who walked into his café the following lunchtime with considerable charm. Cordelia he obviously knew well, and he remembered Liz from her previous visit. Taking her hand between the two of his, he shook it enthusiastically.
‘I will call Mario,’ he said when the girls were seated. Bestowing a warm smile on them all, he headed for a door at the back, behind the counter. As he swung it open, Liz saw a flight of stairs. Presumably he and his son lived in a flat above the café.
‘Och, don’t disturb him, Mr Rossi,’ said Cordelia, half rising again. ‘We can help set the tables and all that. Can’t we?’ She looked around her for confirmation.
‘Yes,’ said Liz hurriedly, also rising to her feet. It was too late. Mr Rossi was already shouting something up the stairs.
‘Sounds so poetic, doesn’t it?’ murmured Cordelia to Liz.
It did, as did the stream of Italian which floated back down to them. Liz wondered if he was up there with the girl she’d seen him with at the Empire Exhibition. They might be sitting on a sofa, perhaps, his arm draped about her shoulders, or...
A succession of pictures flashed through Liz’s mind. None of them had any business at all being there. Then Mario appeared in the doorway. Alone. And yawning hugely.
