A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bonnie didn’t know how much time had elapsed before she realized that what she was hearing was in the real world and not the sometimes pleasant, sometimes not so pleasant, dream existence she’d been trapped in for what seemed for ever.

  A woman’s voice, brisk and authorative, said, ‘She’s beginning to come out of it, Doctor, I’m sure of it. The signs are there.’

  ‘Good, good.’ There was a moment’s pause and Bonnie felt cool fingers at her wrist. ‘The wife’s quite a fan of hers, you know. Got all her records.’

  ‘I’m the same. She entertained the troops overseas, and I always think that takes courage, to go far afield and into goodness knows what.’

  ‘Yes, Burma, wasn’t it? Charlotte’s got newspaper clippings.’

  Bonnie took a deep breath – she wanted to speak, to tell them she could hear the conversation, but as she did so pain so intense as to be unbearable took her into the darkness once more.

  The next time she surfaced it was quiet but through the layers of heaviness holding her down she forced her eyes open. And then she realized she must still be asleep because she was looking up into Art’s face. She tried to keep her eyes open even when the mirage said very softly, ‘Everything’s all right, my sweet, go to sleep now,’ but she couldn’t. She was too tired, deathly tired. So again she went to sleep.

  The third time she awoke she knew it must be daytime because of the white glare that met her tired eyes. Her head ached and her limbs felt leaden, but it was when she tried to take a deeper breath that the pain reared itself again. She must have moaned because there was a movement to the side of her and then a nurse bent over her, saying, ‘Mrs Franklin, you’re awake. That’s wonderful,’ as she pressed a bell on a wire hanging to one side of the bed. The next moment another nurse, middle-aged and far more officious, was there, and it was the voice Bonnie remembered from before that said, ‘Don’t try to move, Mrs Franklin, not just yet.’

  ‘I – I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Yes, you can breathe, dear, but just not too deeply, all right? You’ve got a few broken ribs and other injuries, but nothing that won’t heal in time. All you’ve got to do for now is to concentrate on getting better and not worry about anything.’

  She fell asleep even as the Sister talked on.

  It was Art’s voice she heard next and this time when she opened her eyes her head felt clearer. It still ached but the dazed fuzziness had lifted and suddenly she remembered. She moved her head and instantly Art leaned over her, and for a moment she didn’t question how he was there because of the urgency of what she’d remembered. ‘Selina and the baby?’

  ‘Both well, darling. You did a fine job as a midwife.’

  ‘And Cyril?’

  There was the slightest hesitation before Art said, ‘He’s doing all right but has had to stay in hospital.’

  ‘And you? How . . .’ She wanted to ask how he was here, with her, but it was too much effort to get the words out.

  He must have known what she was thinking. ‘I’m home with you for good, sweetheart.’ He kissed her tenderly. ‘I’m never going to leave you again, I promise. Caught some shrapnel in the shoulder and the quack made a bit of a mess of digging it out. It’s going to take time to heal.’

  Her gaze moved from his face and she saw that his arm was in a sling. ‘I knew something was wrong.’ She was sinking again and she didn’t want to go to sleep – there was so much she needed to ask him.

  It was another few days before Bonnie was well enough to sit up, and she was horrified to find that she had been in hospital for well over a month. She remembered nothing of the first week or so when apparently it had been touch and go, the injuries to her head and chest taking her to the brink and back more than once.

  According to the pretty little nurse who took care of her most of the time, it was when Art arrived at the hospital that the doctors had noticed a change in her condition. ‘He wouldn’t leave you to start with,’ Tessa, the nurse, whispered confidentially. ‘Had a right hoo-ha with Sister Croft, but he wouldn’t budge. He’s very masterful, isn’t he?’ she added wistfully. ‘Anyway, as you’re in a side room he told Sister he was staying and that was the end of it. She’s not had anyone stand up to her like that.’

  Bonnie smiled. That sounded like Art. Once she was properly conscious she had persuaded him to go home and sleep in a proper bed each night, arguing that he wasn’t well himself, but he had been reluctant.

  ‘I think you knew he was there even though you couldn’t respond or anything,’ Tessa continued, obviously taken up with the romance of it all. ‘He’d sit and talk to you for hours. I said to my Edward, if ever I’m at death’s door and they try and keep you away, you do what Mrs Franklin’s husband’s done.’ Edward was Tessa’s intended and a junior doctor at the hospital. ‘And do you know what he said?’

  Bonnie said she didn’t but she was hoping Edward had been supportive as Tessa was a sweet girl and clearly loved him to bits. Given half a chance she would rattle on about him for hours.

  ‘He said he was sure that people in a coma, like you were, Mrs Franklin, can hear far more than we think. They might not even remember it when they come to properly, but he thinks it helps them fight to get better. He wants to be a brain surgeon eventually, so this sort of thing interests him no end.’

  Bonnie nodded, but she knew she was drifting off to sleep again against the propped pillows. That was the trouble, she was always going to sleep. She had mentioned it to her doctor and he had smiled. ‘Better medicine than any I can prescribe, Mrs Franklin. Nature’s own.’ Which was all very well, but there were times when she didn’t want to sleep. Like when Selina had come in to see her with the baby, a beautiful little girl who was as bald as a coot but with the biggest pair of blue-grey eyes Bonnie had ever seen in a baby.

  That had been a few days ago, and it was when Selina had told her Cyril had had to have his leg amputated. The damage it had sustained during the recent attack, when added to the previous injuries, had been too much. But, Selina had added, Cyril had taken it amazingly well. ‘He just keeps looking at Violet and saying we must count our blessings,’ she’d confided, a little tearfully. ‘And I do, truly, but I feel so sorry for him, you know?’

  Bonnie did know. This war was leaving so many broken and damaged lives in its wake, and she still had heard nothing from Burma.

  But like Cyril had said, she had to count her blessings. Art was home; against all the odds Selina’s baby, little Violet, had been born safely; and she herself was going to get well. No matter what it took, she was going to get well. It was something she told herself every day, especially when the doubts came. She could hardly believe how exhausted she was, like now. All she’d done was to sit up in bed, and she hadn’t even managed that herself. Tessa and Sister Croft had lifted her between them.

  But it was no good; as Tessa chatted on, sleep overtook her and she couldn’t fight it. But then she didn’t want to. Sleep provided a rest from the questions buzzing in her mind that she didn’t dare ask. Questions like how long would she have to remain in hospital; would she be able to sing again once she was well, with the damage her chest had sustained; how soon would the weakness in her arms that had her barely able to lift a cup of tea to her lips diminish; but, most importantly of all and terrifying in its significance for the rest of her life with Art, would she still be able to have children? Her upper torso and arms had been worst affected – she’d been told she had instinctively thrown her arms over her head as the debris had crushed her which had probably saved her life – but her stomach had been hurt too. She could move her legs and wriggle her toes, and the doctors had said there was no reason why she wouldn’t be able to walk again once she was strong enough, but that still didn’t mean she could become a mother. A mam. And she knew now that more than anything else, she wanted to carry Art’s baby inside her, to feel it grow and kick and move, to give birth to a little being that was part of her and part of Art.
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  Her life was such a battle, she told herself as she sank into oblivion. It had always been that way from when she was a little girl with her grandma right through to now. And she was tired of it. But from what the doctors and nurses and even Art hadn’t said, rather than what they had, she sensed the battle to get well was perhaps going to be the biggest fight of all. And she didn’t know if she had it in her to struggle on. She wanted to rest. She wanted to go on resting for ever and ever.

  She couldn’t have slept for long and when she next opened her eyes it was to see Art sitting by the bed, a smile splitting his face from ear to ear. ‘Look at you, sitting up,’ he said softly, but in spite of himself he couldn’t hide the relief in his voice. ‘I didn’t expect this when I came today.’

  Tessa had washed and dried her hair for her that morning before pulling it into two little bunches either side of her head, and now he touched one gently. ‘You look about ten years old with your hair like that,’ he said with a catch in his voice.

  She felt like an old, old woman. It took an enormous effort to lift her hand and reach for him, and he immediately took it between his own. Her eyes looked into his as she whispered, ‘How are you feeling? How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Good. It’s good.’ He lifted the arm in the sling.

  ‘Art?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart? What is it, my love?’

  ‘I – I need to know.’ It barely hurt to breathe now – the pain was all in the core of her, in her emotions.

  ‘What, my love? What do you need to know?’ His voice was soothing but she saw his expression change and become guarded.

  ‘Will I get better? Better enough to leave here and live a normal life with you and Annie?’

  The relief was in his face now when he said, ‘Of course you will. Of course. The doctors are amazed at your progress.’

  ‘And sing again?’ she asked softly. ‘Like before?’

  The hesitation was brief but it was there. ‘Of course, darling.’ And the closed look was back.

  ‘Please, Art, I want the truth. Don’t humour me. I’m ill but I’m not stupid.’

  It was so like the old Bonnie he almost smiled. But this was no laughing matter. The doctors had told him that on no account was he to tell her that they suspected she would never sing again, not as she had, at least. The damage to her chest and throat had been life-threatening and severe, and even now they were worried that something might happen to jeopardize her recovery. Like telling her that her career as a singer was over. But he knew his Bonnie better than they did and furthermore they had promised never to lie to each other, however difficult that might prove. And as she’d said, she wasn’t stupid.

  He moistened his lips, his gaze holding hers for a long, long moment. ‘The truth is that they don’t know for sure but there’s a possibility that that stage of your life is over.’

  Bonnie nodded. Two down and one to go. The hardest of all. ‘And – and my stomach?’

  He stared at her, his brow wrinkling. ‘Your stomach?’

  ‘The injuries to my stomach. How – how bad are they?’

  ‘They’ve healed fine, darling. Why, are you in pain? Shall I get Tessa to give you some painkillers?’

  ‘Can I still have children, Art?’

  ‘Can you . . .’ And then the confusion cleared. ‘Hell, baby, is that what you’ve been worrying about? Of course you can have children, darling. They were just minor injuries and – oh, Bonnie, don’t cry, don’t cry. Oh, darling.’

  ‘You’re sure? You’re sure we can still have babies?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’ He put his arms round her. ‘I promise. How long have you been torturing yourself like this? Why didn’t you ask me before? Oh, love, love.’

  ‘I didn’t dare ask in case the answer was no.’

  ‘Look, sweetheart.’ He sat carefully on the side of the bed with a glance at the glass panel in the door. If Sister Croft caught him sitting on her patient’s pristine bed she’d have his guts for garters. ‘Your chest and arms took the load, not your stomach, all right? According to the men who got you out, you were still partly protected by the shelter, thank God, when they pulled you free. That’s the truth, darling. I swear it.’

  ‘So we can have babies?’ she said again.

  ‘Dozens.’

  Bonnie relaxed in his arms. If her singing career was over she could come to terms with that. It would be hard, and she wouldn’t like it, because she had always imagined that in the future when she and Art started a family she would still perform now and again when the circumstances were right, as much for her own satisfaction as anything else. But she could let it go. If she had to, she could let it go.

  The important thing now was to begin to battle again . . .

  It was December, and now there was no doubt in people’s minds that the war would soon be over. It had moved into its final stages and the Allies were unbeatable. Even in the hospital the atmosphere had changed, an air of expectancy pervading the corridors. The week before, Bonnie had read in the newspaper that the Queen had thanked women for their war work, praising the ‘magnificent’ efforts of those who worked for the Civil Defence, the fire, ambulance and police services, the WVS, and ordinary housewives who had all contributed to winning the war. She had spoken as though it was already a done deal and Bonnie and countless others had been heartened and reassured.

  ‘It may well be that all which we women have endured in the war may indirectly save our children and our grandchildren from another,’ the Queen had said, and Bonnie had nodded to herself as she’d read that. She hoped so, oh, she did so hope so. It would help to make some sense of the obscene madness that had taken over certain nations. Nations that had committed atrocities only now beginning to come to light as the Allies liberated concentration camps on their march against the enemy. It must never happen again.

  She and Selina had discussed the Queen’s speech one day as Violet had slept in her mother’s arms, and they’d both been thinking of those other mothers who’d loved their children just as passionately as Selina loved Violet, and who’d had to endure the unspeakable. But as Selina had said, you couldn’t dwell on such horrors for long or else you’d go stark staring mad.

  Selina and the baby had stayed in Bonnie and Art’s spare room while Cyril remained in hospital. Art had arranged for a pram and cot and anything else they needed to be delivered to the house, but after a few weeks when talk of Cyril being discharged was mentioned, Hilda had come up with a suggestion that had surprised them all. ‘There’s only me rattling about in my house now,’ she’d said to Selina one day. Verity had gone to live with her mother after Larry had been killed the year before. ‘And I don’t want new lodgers, people I’ve got to get used to. Why don’t you and Cyril take over the top two floors and turn it into a kind of flat for yourselves? There’s the two bedrooms on the second floor as you know, and you could make one of the bedrooms on the first floor into a nice sitting room easy enough. The son of one of the neighbours is a handy lad and he’d turn what used to be my bedroom into a kitchen for you, so you’d be independent of me. I don’t hold with two women sharing a kitchen, it never works. I’ll get myself a nice sofa bed for my front room and make some changes in there. It’s about time it was actually lived in, and I’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug downstairs, especially now I’m feeling my age a bit. And I’d like the company, tell you the truth.’

  Selina had been thrilled by the offer and the chance of her own home again, and between her, Hilda and Hilda’s neighbour, the work had been done and Selina and Violet had moved in just in time for Cyril to be allowed home. The sitting room had been furnished with a second-hand suite at one end and a small table and four chairs at the other, and the kitchen boasted a gas cooker, a sink, built-in cupboards and little else, but Selina was thrilled, and that was all that mattered. Violet had her own bedroom, and the upstairs ‘house’ was even bigger, square foot for square foot, than the house Selina and Cyril had lived in before. What with the ligh
ts being switched on in Piccadilly, the Strand and Fleet Street, and Britain’s Home Guardsmen hanging up their guns after four and a half years’ service, everything was on the up and up, Selina assured Bonnie every time she visited the hospital.

  And whilst Bonnie was glad for her friend and for the signs that Britain was nearing the end of the war, these occurrences – wonderful though they were – weren’t so important as achieving her goal to go home. She didn’t want to listen when the doctors encouraged her to be patient, and Art and her friends told her not to fret. She wanted to get well, she wanted to be normal and out in the real world. She wanted to see the lights in Piccadilly, not hear about them second-hand, but without really realizing it she used her frustration and impatience to push herself to the maximum and the doctors were amazed at her progress.

  The Allies had made good on their promise to shift the war effort to the Far East and the tide was being turned on the Japs, but this had prompted the enemy to use a new and alarming weapon – human suicide bombs – and this further added to Bonnie’s sense of helplessness. When she read about the Japanese deliberately diving their planes into the decks of American ships and calling the tactic a kamikaze or ‘divine wind’, she got herself into such a state that Art refused to let a newspaper into her room, but it was too late.

  The reports had already revived her fear and anxiety about what the Japanese would do to POWs or American and British hospitals where men were too sick to flee, now that the enemy were worried they might lose the war. ‘My da’s a sitting duck,’ she fretted to Art. ‘If he’s still alive, of course.’ For all their obsession with honour and saving face, the Japanese thought nothing of slaughtering unarmed prisoners or sick and dying men. It didn’t make sense, not to the Western mind.

  Art tried to reassure her every time Bonnie brought it up, which was almost every time he visited, but in truth he had little hope that Bonnie’s father had survived his injuries, let alone the Japanese. Unbeknown to her he had tried to find out anything he could about John Lindsay, or Abe Turner as he called himself, but with the renewed onslaught in the Far East and communication there being fraught with difficulties at the best of times, he’d drawn a blank.