When the Lights Come on Again

by Maggie Craig

  Forty

  ‘I’m not nursing a German.’

  Liz hadn’t raised her voice. She’d said the words perfectly calmly. Judging by the determined set of her mouth, however, she meant business. Unfortunately, so did Sister MacLean.

  ‘I’m not asking you to nurse a German, MacMillan.’

  Her accent had become more lilting. That was a well-known danger signal. It made no difference to Liz.

  She waved an unsteady hand in the general direction of the bed further down the ward where the young German sailor lay. It had shaken her badly to find him there when she’d come on duty tonight. He’d been picked up in the sea after his vessel had been torpedoed by a British ship.

  ‘He was out there trying to kill our boys.’

  ‘Our boys were out there trying to kill him,’ came the implacable answer. ‘That’s war. On this occasion they killed a lot of his comrades. Sometimes it’s the other way round. A stupid way of sorting things out if you ask me,’ Sister said briskly, ‘but that’s the male of the species for you. What I meant is, I’m not asking you to nurse a German. I’m asking you to nurse a patient.’

  Stung, Liz met the older woman’s eyes.

  ‘The man in that bed is our patient, as much as anyone else in here. If Adolf Hitler were admitted to this ward, I’d expect you to nurse him too. With medical competence and human compassion. Do I make myself understood?’

  The night was crawling past. Liz took a walk round the ward. She hadn’t quite perfected the silent glide of the most experienced staff nurses and sisters, but she was getting better at it. All of the patients were sleeping soundly, including the German. She walked back to her table.

  Her books were lying open on it. Night duty was a good opportunity to catch up on some studying. Half an hour later she realized she’d been staring at the same page for a full ten minutes without taking in one word of it.

  Night nurse’s hysteria. That was what one of the old hands had told her it was called. When your thoughts went rattling off in a hundred different directions. To Mario, naturally. Italy had surrendered in June, had now joined the Allies. Surely that meant he would be released? But it was September now and she’d heard nothing. There had been no more messages.

  She’d had the occasional cheerful, if brief, missive from Adam, but they’d dried up completely over the past few months. The last one had arrived the morning after they’d had the thrilling announcement that D-Day had come at last. Which meant that young Dr Buchanan was probably on the continent - patching up the other chaps, as he’d put it. In the danger zone.

  One of those who had died in the battle to free Europe was Eric Mitchell. Liz found that out by accident when Miss Gilchrist turned up in Accident and Emergency one night, having twisted her ankle during the blackout. She greeted Liz like a long-lost daughter, all but falling on her neck. Liz treated her with professional courtesy.

  According to Lucy Gilchrist, Eric Mitchell had died a hero. Somehow Liz doubted that, but she was sorry for his wife and child.

  The Allies were making progress - Paris had been liberated the week before - but they were meeting fierce resistance from the Germans every step of the way. Getting to Berlin wasn’t exactly going to be a stroll through the countryside. Liz worried a lot about Adam. If only he would write!

  And then there was her father. Her grandfather had challenged her to apply her knowledge of psychology to the problem.

  ‘Some men hit the bottle when the going gets rough. Your father didnae, but he got all closed in on himself, tried to shut the rest of us out. Particularly after wee Georgie died and when he was laid off from the Queen Mary. That sort of thing hits a man hard, you know.’

  ‘And he took it out on his family?’ Liz asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  ‘His family was the one area of his life that he could control. Or thought he could. Until you rebelled.’

  It did make some sort of sense. Liz could see already that Hope - like her mother a born diplomat - wasn’t going to have the same problems she’d had growing up in her father’s household.

  Understanding that she herself had been a constant challenge to her father was one thing. Forgiving him for how he’d dealt with that was a different matter.

  Liz’s head snapped up at the faint moan coming from one of the beds. She made the patient comfortable, soothed him back to sleep, then returned to her textbook, closing it in quiet exasperation ten minutes later. She couldn’t seem to concentrate tonight.

  For some reason it was Marie Gallagher who was filling her thoughts now. Clear as day in her mind’s eye, Liz could visualize the cramped flat in the Holy City before the parachute bomb had devastated it.

  She could see its neatness and cleanliness, Helen’s pots of flowers, the holy pictures on the walls. Her brain focused in on the one she herself had always loved so much, Christ knocking at a door, His face full of understanding, His eyes full of compassion for all the world.

  She remembered how Helen’s mother had noticed her studying it. ‘The door to our hearts,’ Marie had said. ‘All we have to do is let Him in.’

  Liz glanced at her watch. An hour and a half to go till her break.

  ‘Schwester?’

  The sibilant whisper was startlingly loud in the night-time silence of the ward. She knew exactly which bed it had come from: the one occupied by the German sailor. She walked swiftly but quietly up the ward, careful not to rouse any of the other patients. They’d be woken soon enough, poor souls.

  As she reached the foot of his bed, he said the word again, more quietly now that he could see her. He didn’t seem to want to waken the other patients either.

  ‘Schwester?’

  Could it mean sister? That was what it sounded like. Had he perhaps been dreaming of his own sister back in Germany and woken up confused, still half-asleep? She supposed Germans did have sisters.

  She had a sudden brainwave. Perhaps Schwester was the German word for sister in the nursing sense. Well, she thought wryly, at least someone here knows my true worth, even if it is only a filthy Hun.

  He didn’t look much like a filthy Hun, lying back quietly on a white pillow, gazing up at her in mute appeal. He looked like a boy. Some mother’s son. Some sister’s brother. His eyes were very blue. Like Helen’s.

  He indicated the jug of water which stood on his locker. Both of his hands were heavily bandaged.

  ‘Water? You want a drink of water?’

  ‘Ja,’ he managed. ‘Wasser.’ He tried to say it in English. ‘Votter.’

  She poured out a glass, and since there was no way he could hold it himself, she put an arm round his shoulders, lifted him up and helped him drink. As she lowered his head carefully back on to the pillow, she could see that the effort of sitting up had been considerable.

  ‘Danke, Schwester. Danke schön.’

  He was thanking her. That much she could understand. And he was trying to smile.

  ‘Can I do something else for you?’

  She wasn’t sure if he understood her or not, but he said something which sounded like photograph. He kept repeating the word and pointing towards the top of the ward. Of course. His personal possessions, such as they were, must be in the locked cupboard up there where such things were kept.

  She told him in sign language what she intended to do and was back in five minutes with what looked like a home-made waterproofed wallet. His eyes lit up when he saw it and he indicated that Liz should open it. The photo inside, only slightly spotted by sea water, was of a young woman holding a baby.

  ‘Your wife and child?’

  He wasn’t sure about that, so she rephrased it, pointing to the photograph and then at him. ‘Your wife and baby?’

  He nodded. Liz pretended not to notice the wetness in his eyes. She found a spare chunky glass tumbler inside his locker and propped the photo up against it, securing it with a New Testament laid on its side, pushing the locker so that it was inches from his head.

  ‘Then y
ou can look at them while you fall asleep again,’ she said softly. She was sure he hadn’t understood any of that, but she could see that he appreciated what she had done.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, although it came out like zank you. Liz laid a cool hand on his brow. He shut his eyes, like an obedient child who’d been told to go to sleep.

  ‘Nae bother,’she said.

  ‘Nae bozzer,’ he repeated, opening his eyes briefly again and looking up at her.

  Liz smiled.

  Handing over to the day shift, Liz briefed Naomi Richardson, now a staff nurse, on the condition of the various patients. She told her about the German sailor and the events of the night.

  ‘Cordelia speaks German. I’ll ask her to pop in sometime this morning to talk to him. In fact, I’ll go and see if I can catch her now, before she goes on duty.’

  Cordelia came back from the young sailor’s bed with a big smile on her face. ‘He comes from Hamburg, although his wife is staying with relatives out in the country somewhere. They were bombed out by our lot. I told him we’d try to get a letter to her via the International Red Cross. He’s really pleased about that and he wants to know who the angel was who gave him a drink of water in the middle of the night. He says you tried to talk to him, even though he doesn’t speak any English and you don’t speak any German. And he says thank you, from the bottom of his heart. He was feeling really lost and lonely, and you helped.’

  Liz went pink with pleasure. It was nice to be appreciated, even if it was by a filthy Hun - but she wasn’t thinking of him that way any more. She’d go and have a quick word with him before she dragged her weary body off to bed - well, a quick point and smile anyway.

  She did that, then made her way out of the ward, waving to Naomi as she headed for the door.

  ‘That’s me away off to have my beauty sleep!’

  ‘Some of us need it more than others, MacMillan,’ responded Naomi.

  ‘Huh,’ said Liz, turning and taking a few steps backwards as she went out through the double doors. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve already been called an angel this morning. Oh, sorry.’

  Turning around to see who she had bumped into, the apology on her lips faded when she saw Sister MacLean. She’d been talking to Cordelia, who now beat a hasty retreat, heading smartly towards her own ward.

  Liz was for it. Walking backwards? That was nearly as bad as running. No rebuke was forthcoming, however.

  ‘No problems during the night?’

  ‘None, Sister.’

  ‘Sleep well then, Nurse MacMillan.’

  Liz was halfway along the corridor before it registered. She turned and saw Sister MacLean smiling at her. That was a big enough miracle, but the first one was even more significant.

  She had called her Nurse. For the first time ever. Liz went off to bed with a spring in her step.

  She’d been dreaming again. That wasn’t unusual. She still occasionally had nightmares about the Blitz, but there were pleasanter dreams too. She often saw Helen and Eddie with Hope. She liked those dreams. It made her think that the two of them were still around somewhere - somehow - and watching over their daughter.

  Lately, however, she’d been having dreams about Helen and Adam together, the two of them walking towards her. Helen would lift his hand and extend it towards Liz, as though she were introducing the two of them to each other.

  You know his worth, then? That was the question Helen had put on the night she died. Of course she did. If this was some sort of a message, she didn’t need it. She knew very well how much he had done for her. They had been through a lot together, Adam and her, and she missed him dreadfully.

  The first time she had the dream, she woke in a panic, fearful that something had happened to him, but the uneasiness had soon worn off. However, the frequency of the dream began to concern her.

  Coinciding at teatime the following day in the nurses’ dining room, Liz asked Cordelia if she ever dreamt about Adam.

  ‘Occasionally. Not very often. Why?’

  ‘I seem to be dreaming about him a lot lately.’

  Cordelia had a very peculiar smile on her face. ‘I dream a lot about Hans-Peter, Liz.’

  ‘MacMillan!’

  Liz looked up. Someone was calling her name from the other side of the room. It was Naomi Richardson, beaming all over her face. When Liz reached her, she grabbed her by the hand.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘And don’t ask any questions.’ Curious, Liz allowed Naomi to pull her out to the hallway. ‘Turn around, Liz,’ the girl said when they got there. ‘Turn your back and close your eyes.’

  Intrigued by her obvious excitement, Liz did as Naomi asked. She heard someone else come into the hall. The footsteps approached her. A man, she thought. Two long-fingered hands came over her eyes.

  ‘Guess who?’ said a dark brown voice.

  She whirled round. ‘Mario? Oh, Mario, you’re home at last!’

  Forty-one

  He hadn’t told her much yet: only the bits which made good stories. After their arrest they’d found themselves in a transit camp in the north of England. There had been all sorts there, from captured German sailors to Jews who’d come to Britain fleeing from the Nazis. And there had been a few Italians who were convinced fascists.

  Mario had laughed at them, making light of the threats they’d issued to their fellow internees who they thought were opponents of II Duce. Anyone who criticised Mussolini, expressed left-wing views or thought the Allies might win the war had been warned that their names were being noted for reprisals after the supposed German and Italian victory.

  ‘So for a brief period,’ he told her with a smile, ‘I was an enemy of both the Italian and the British states. Some doing, eh? Aren’t you proud of me, Liz?’

  He was choosing to see the funny side, as he always had done, but there were fine lines on his brow which hadn’t been there when he had left, and after he told her the story his lips settled into a tight line. Liz was sure the threat had seemed all too real at the time, but she took her cue from him, and didn’t press him to tell her anything he didn’t want to.

  They were sitting in the flat above the café. Although very dusty and more than a little grubby, it was intact and secure. Someone had cleared up the café too, sweeping up the worst of the broken glass and mess. Friends of his father, Mario thought, from one of the Italian cafés or restaurants which had managed to ride out the storm.

  Apparently willing to forgive and forget, the Italian community was once again in the business of serving its adopted city. Mario would set about finding out exactly who had organized the clean-up the following day, so he could thank them for what they had done.

  ‘From the bottom of my heart,’ he said quietly, lifting Liz’s hand and kissing her fingertips.

  Some of their guards, he told her, had been none too gentle at first, believing the internees were all fascists or fifth columnists or worse. Then one soldier at the camp, exasperated by his inability to give instructions to a group of Polish Jews, had yelled out in the broadest of Glasgow accents: ‘Is there naebody here who speaks the King’s English?’

  ‘Aye, pal,’ Mario had called out in reply. ‘Come over here. We’re all frae Glesca.’

  After that they’d got much better treatment, although he had been forced to split up.from his father.

  ‘Och, Mario,’ Liz said with quick sympathy. ‘That must have been awful for you both. Is he all right?’

  He was keeping a tight hold of her hand. ‘He’s fine.’ He shot her a glance and she saw the yearning for sympathy in it. ‘It was bloody awful, Liz, but it’s all right now. They took him to the Isle of Man, and the people there treated him very well.’

  ‘He’s still there?’

  Mario nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve got him digs with a local family. I want him to rest up for a bit before I bring him home.’

  ‘I knew you were in Canada,’ she told him. ‘I got a message.’

  Mario nodded thoughtfully. ‘That would have be
en one of the sailors on the ship that took us over there. A Liverpudlian. An older man - in his fifties. He thought we were being very shabbily treated and he was sympathetic. He asked if there was anyone who would be worrying about me...’

  Mario swallowed and gave Liz’s hand a squeeze.

  ‘Someone else must have been sympathetic,’ she said gently. ‘I got a second message, telling me that you and your father were all right. Do you know who might have sent that?’

  He thought about it. ‘They sent out people to investigate, not long after we got to Canada.’ He smiled. ‘Not a bad advert for British democracy, that. In the middle of a war, the powers-that-be still found time to investigate individual injustices.’ He grimaced. ‘Not that it did me much good at the time. But there was a clerk, a young chap, about the same age as myself. He and I had a chat. I told him how worried I was about my father.’ He paused. ‘I told him about you.’

  ‘And he took it upon himself to find out about your father and also get a message to me? That was kind,’ Liz said. ‘That was very kind.’

  ‘Aye. People like that... they kind of restore your faith in human nature, don’t they?’

  ‘Thank God for them,’ said Liz passionately. ‘I worried myself sick when news came through about the Arandora Star.’

  ‘You and thousands of Italian families,’ said Mario, and for the first time there was bitterness in his voice. ‘There were no passenger lists for those ships. We were herded on to them like cattle. I missed going on the Arandora Star by about twenty men, Liz. That’s all.’

  They looked at each other solemnly. ‘Och, Mario,’ she said again, leaning over impulsively to kiss him. ‘So when did you come back from Canada?’

  ‘Last year. When Italy surrendered. I was in line for release anyway. Conditional release. I had to agree to come home and do work relating to the war effort. I did it in the Isle of Man, to be with Papa. But now,’ he said brightly, sitting up and squaring his shoulders, ‘I’m a free man. I’m going to get the café sorted out for my father coming home. My brother and his family too, once the war’s over. And then I’m going back to finish my degree. Take up where I left off.’