No Place for a Woman

by Val Wood

  Lucy smiled as she read the letter, the exuberance and enthusiasm showing through Eleanor’s written words.

  Edie had also written to say she was about to set off to France in a few days’ time and would try to keep in touch. I hope I’m doing the right thing, she declared. I was really thrilled when Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson herself spoke to me and thanked me for my decision to join the Women’s Hospital Corps as she says they really need experienced nurses, just as much as doctors. The hospital is an important medical centre, and somewhere on the coast, near Calais, so I’ll get plenty of fresh air, come summer.

  I hope all is well with you, my dear friend, and with Oswald too. Please give him my kind regards next time you see him. You’ll probably be a fully qualified doctor by the time we meet again, so I’ll send my congratulations in advance. By the way, you’ll never guess who I saw on my visit home. Henry Warrington! We had a short conversation. He’s grown very handsome and seems a thoroughly nice sort.

  Much love from your old friend, Edie.

  Lucy gave a pensive sigh. So much was happening, so many changes, and she would soon have news of her own to impart about moving to Endell Street Hospital along with Dr Olga Schultz and Dr Rose Mason, both of whom had become good friends despite the difference in their ages.

  There would be more practical work for her at the military hospital, which was run entirely by female surgeons and doctors, many of whom had been suffragists. The hospital had been opened only recently to treat head and femoral injuries sustained in the war, and was a direct result of the success of French hospitals like the one in Wimereux that Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson and Dr Flora Murray had founded in direct opposition to the English medical fraternity and the War Office, neither of whom appeared to understand the logic of having a specialist military hospital in London.

  Perhaps I’ll eventually go abroad too, she thought, if this dreadful war doesn’t end soon. But there didn’t seem to be any end in sight; there were ongoing battles at Ypres with many casualties and as the year progressed into February and through to April thousands of British, French and Australian troops landed in Gallipoli to confront the Turkish army fighting alongside Germany.

  ‘Dr Thornbury.’

  Lucy turned her head. Strictly speaking she had not yet finally qualified as a doctor, but that is how everyone spoke of her. She had had much more experience than she would have had in normal times, and was about to make a ward visit.

  ‘Yes, Dr Schultz? Can I do something for you?’

  ‘A word if you please?’ Dr Schultz looked tired, and there were dark rings beneath her eyes.

  ‘Are you unwell, doctor?’ Lucy asked her, following her into a small room at the end of the ward where the medical staff took an occasional rest whenever they had the opportunity.

  ‘No,’ she said wearily. ‘Just tired, as we all are. Sit down a minute, Lucy. I want to tell you something.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Lucy interrupted anxiously. ‘Can I help?’

  Olga Schultz smiled. ‘It’s good that you ask if you can help. You’re a true doctor, Lucy. But no, in this instance you can’t.’ She paused. ‘You know that I was due to work at Endell Street with you and Dr Rose?’ She paused again as if gathering her words together. ‘Well, now it seems that I’m not. I’m being transferred to a convalescent hospital somewhere in the country. It’s still important war work, for the aim is to get soldiers well enough to be sent back to the killing fields,’ she added bitterly. ‘But I will not be trusted with a scalpel as I would be in Endell Street.’

  ‘But why?’ Lucy asked. ‘You’re one of the best surgeons here.’

  Dr Schultz gazed at her pensively. ‘Have you noticed that I have a German name? I am British born, as is my mother, but my father was born in Germany. He came to England – arriving by ship in your home city of Hull, by the way – when he was three years old and has been dead for fifteen years, but it seems,’ she said, with a catch in her voice, ‘it seems that the War Office authorities consider that because I have a German name I might be perceived as a threat to this country that has always been my home.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Lucy began, and then remembered what Uncle William had told her in one of his letters, that there had been a demonstration by an angry and threatening mob outside a pork butcher’s shop in Hull. The unfortunate butcher had a German name.

  ‘Would you be willing to change your name?’ she asked hesitantly.

  The doctor nodded. ‘That is what I am going to do,’ she said miserably. ‘If I want to continue with my work, then I must. I’m going to be Olive Spence.’

  They sat quietly for a short time and then Dr Schultz, soon to be Dr Spence, said, ‘I’ll miss working with you, Lucy, and most of all with Rose. We have worked side by side for a long time, as well as being such very good friends. So there you have it,’ she said with a sigh. ‘This war is changing everyone’s lives. None of us can escape the consequences of it.’

  She was gone by the following week, and Lucy and Dr Mason were looking for lodgings near Endell Street. This was a very run-down area of London and finding somewhere suitable to live where a landlady didn’t object to their coming and going at unsuitable hours wasn’t easy, but eventually they found two rooms in the same house in Covent Garden where they could have the use of the kitchen to make a hot drink whenever they wanted, providing they supplied their own tea, coffee and milk. For breakfast, lunch and supper they ate in the hospital refectory.

  ‘It’s such a pity that Olga – Olive can’t be with us,’ Dr Mason remarked. ‘The hospital is run by suffragists and there is no one keener than her on rights for women. In fact she was asked to come by Dr Anderson herself; she wants all of her doctors to be of the same mind.’

  ‘Oh! Does she?’ Lucy said, and wondering why she had been chosen she determined to make an appointment to speak to either Dr Anderson or Dr Murray as soon as possible.

  Endell Street was a very new hospital, the War Office on this occasion having decided to turn a blind eye to the fact that many of the doctors and the nurses had been militant members of the suffragettes and suffragists campaigns; it was, however, within a very old building, a former workhouse, and there was much work required to bring it up to the exacting requirements of Dr Anderson and Dr Murray, who were often at odds with the Royal Army Medical Corps. In addition to the doctors, clinical research scientists would be moving in too, with the aim of advancing the understanding of medicine and surgery.

  ‘Dr Thornbury,’ Dr Anderson said, inviting her to sit down. ‘Are you settling in? We’re rather topsy-turvy at the moment, but soon everything will be spick and span. The beds and medicines and equipment that we need are starting to arrive, and the staff too, and we are expecting to receive many seriously injured military patients who are in much need of our expertise. I’m so pleased,’ she added, with a smile that lit her rather plain features, ‘that you felt able to join us even though you are only just on the threshold of your profession.’

  Lucy licked her lips. It was at times like this, in the company of someone like the estimable doctor and militant campaigner, that she felt totally inadequate, but she decided to be as true to herself as possible and outline her fears.

  ‘I’m really pleased to be here, Dr Anderson,’ she said, ‘and I hope I can justify your faith in me.’ Dr Anderson’s calm gaze did not waver, and she continued, ‘It’s because I’m at the beginning of my professional life that I asked to speak to you, as I have a slight worry.’

  She hesitated and swallowed. ‘I am, of course, on the side of all women who want the same opportunities as men, but I feel I should tell you that I am not a militant campaigner, as most of the doctors and nurses here at Endell Street are.’

  ‘Of course we know that already, Dr Thornbury, but I appreciate your honesty.’ Dr Anderson gave another small smile. ‘We vet our potential medical staff very thoroughly and we have had excellent reports of you, medically speaking, and understand, we think, that your inc
lination is to concentrate on your true calling rather than becoming involved in politics. Perhaps one day when you are fully qualified and without hindrance you might join us, but for the time being we at Endell Street would rather you focused on your studies and your work here to help the injured soldiers who need our care so much.’

  Lucy was so relieved she wanted to weep, but she held back her tears. She was a doctor, or almost, and didn’t cry, but must remain detached. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with just the merest break in her voice. ‘Thank you so much.’

  They were inundated with wounded men, and it was much harder than she ever imagined it would be; there were times in theatre when she was on the verge of passing out, but she didn’t. She pinched her thigh or her arm to help her concentrate and tried not to think that the raw and bloody flesh beneath the surgeon’s knife belonged to someone’s son or husband. With her apron covered in blood she would hold a severed limb and know that the soldier who had lost it now had at least a chance of survival.

  Lucy thought of the first time she had seen a naked man. They had had to strip his sodden uniform from him to attend to his injuries, and even though horribly wounded he had tried to cover himself when he saw that it was women who were tending him.

  ‘Oh, miss,’ he had wept, as he attempted to conceal himself and his injuries. ‘Such sights are not for your eyes.’

  ‘It’s all right, soldier,’ she had said gently. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not in the least,’ and she had a fleeting, cherished memory of Edie when they were children explaining how to tell if a new baby was a boy.

  She made a point of visiting the patients who were back on the recovery ward and sometimes the surgeon would ask her to explain to them the procedures that they had been through. ‘Where are you from?’ she always asked, and often said, ‘Your family will be relieved to know you are safe.’

  Once, when she asked the question, the soldier replied, ‘I’m from Hull, wi’ Hull Pals.’

  ‘I’m from Hull too,’ she said. ‘Whereabouts do you live?’

  ‘Mason Street.’ He looked up at her from pained, bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I know it,’ she said. ‘It’s not far from where I live. Do you know Joshua and Stanley Morris? They’re with Hull Pals too.’

  ‘Aye, I do. They’re wi’ a different unit though. Hope they’ve made it.’

  He tried to say something else but was growing drowsy as his medication took effect, so she patted his hand and murmured, ‘So do I.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  France, 1915

  Dear Mam, Father and everybody,

  I’m sorry it’s tekken so long for me to reply to your last letter. We’ve been rather busy of late and though I was expecting a week off it was cancelled as they wanted us to move somewhere else. You know don’t you that I can’t tell you where? Anyway, these are not bad digs so mustn’t grumble, better than the last ones which were a bit damp. I still haven’t seen our Stanley, but ran into a school pal who said he had, and he’s fine. Being a sergeant he won’t have as much time as me for letter writing, and let me tell you a secret. I’m due for promotion (another stripe), but I expect to stay with this unit for a bit.

  Have to close now as it’s getting late and the lights are not good enough to write by. I hope everybody’s all right and that good old Hull is surviving without me, bet all the lasses miss me. Ha ha! Thanks for the last parcel, especially the cake. I shared it with a mate and we both enjoyed it. I’ll write again as soon as I can, but don’t worry if you don’t hear for a bit as we’re allus busy, but I’m fine and hope you all are too.

  From your loving son, Josh.

  Josh addressed the envelope and tucked in the flap so that it could be read and censored. How much of the news he gave his family they would believe was debatable, but to give too much away about the conditions or their position would mean a stern reprimand and maybe even lose him the chance of another stripe.

  He scratched and scratched at his back and legs and under his arms and in his groin, swearing beneath his breath and wishing he could have a hot bath to kill off the lice. His biggest fear was not the Germans’ fire, but catching trench fever caused by infection from the lice, which could put him into hospital as it had his brother.

  Stanley had had it and had been very ill and taken to hospital, but they hadn’t told anyone at home. Now that he was better he’d been moved further up the line to another unit, replacing one of the sergeants who had been killed along with some of the other men. The school pal that he’d mentioned in his letter had been in hospital at the same time and had brought back a message from Stanley to say he’d written home, but hadn’t told them about the trench fever or the hospital and for Josh not to either.

  Josh took off his damp socks one by one and examined his toes as best he could in the fading light, then rubbed them dry with a piece of flannel that he kept for the purpose, massaging both feet to warm them and keep the circulation going before reaching into his pack for the talcum powder and liberally dusting his feet before putting on clean and fairly dry socks. He was meticulous about this routine, something he had learned in the days when he’d been a boy soldier. Out here, nothing was really bone dry, but at least the weather was warmer than it had been and there was only a thin layer of caked mud at the base of the trench, unlike the last one where they’d been ankle deep in the stuff, and it wasn’t only mud.

  Fritz wouldn’t attack tonight, it was getting too late and it had been a quiet and boring day, although he and his pals were always listening and on the lookout, even when, as now, the enemy was far enough away not to be an immediate threat. He pulled up his collar and wrapped a scarf round his neck and ears, folded his arms, closed his eyes and silently, as he had been taught to do as a youngster, said a few prayers asking God to take care of his family and especially his brother Stanley who was in a very dangerous place. As an afterthought, he implored, ‘And please, dear God, please don’t let this war get worse before it gets better.’

  Dolly Morris gave Joshua’s letter to her sister Mary to read. ‘He doesn’t say much, does he?’ she said, taking a handkerchief out of her apron pocket to wipe her eyes. ‘We got one from our Stanley just ’other day and he was ’same. He did say though that he’d had a few days off, which was why he’d had time to write.’

  ‘They can’t say, can they?’ Mary said after reading it. ‘But he doesn’t sound worried and if he’s got better digs that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Though I can’t quite think what he means by digs.’ She frowned. ‘I thought they were in ’trenches?’

  ‘They are,’ Dolly said impassively. ‘He’s onny saying that so we don’t worry about him and Stanley. Still,’ she drew herself up with a sigh, ‘it’ll be warmer now that we’ve got to June and mebbe,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘mebbe America might come in now after that big ship of theirs was sunk. Lusitania, wasn’t it?’ She sighed again. ‘All those women and children. Terrible loss of life, and almost on home shores.’

  She shook her head and changed the subject. ‘Our Josh didn’t say if he’d got those mittens that Miss Eleanor give me to send.’ She gave a little laugh that didn’t convince Mary that she wasn’t worried. ‘Mebbe ’cake I sent was more acceptable!’

  ‘They’ve taken on our Sally,’ Mary told her. ‘When Mrs Thornbury told me about ’factory starting up, I put Sally’s name down straight away. She’s a right good seamstress and she’ll like being there more than ’munitions factory, but our Daisy is hoping to be a tram driver. She applied a fortnight ago and has got an interview lined up.’ She laughed. ‘These youngsters! They’ll try anything, but rather her than me!’

  ‘So what’ll you do?’ Dolly asked. ‘You’ll need to do summat wi’ your time when everybody’s out all day.’

  ‘I know, and Joe doesn’t get in till late most nights.’ Mary bit her lip. ‘I hate to be idle and I need to earn some extra money, but I only know about housekeeping.’

  ‘And cooking,’ Dolly said. ‘You’re a good cook. You
could try for a job in a canteen.’

  Mary nodded, but wasn’t convinced. She’d never been used to working with a lot of women and didn’t relish the thought of it.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ Dolly said. ‘If that young miss can start up a business, I don’t see why I can’t and I won’t need any bank loan.’

  ‘What?’ Mary said, intrigued as always by her sister’s schemes. Dolly would never ever believe that she couldn’t do anything she set her mind to.

  ‘Well, with all these women going out to work, who’s going to do their washing? I’ll tell you who.’ She didn’t wait for an answer but simply pointed a finger at herself. ‘Me, that’s who! I’ve written out some posters to push through doors.’ She reached over to a pile of papers on her sideboard and showed one to Mary.

  ‘I’ve bought some old sacks from ’flour mill – Tom got ’em cheap for me – and I’ve washed ’em three times to mek sure they’re clean. We’ve got an old wheelbarrow that Tom says he’ll scrub out and paint for me and I’ll do a delivery service as well.’ She sat back triumphantly as she saw the astonished look on Mary’s face.

  ‘I’ll pick ’dirty washing up and every house’ll have its own laundry sack. I’ll wash and dry ’clothes at wash house and then tek them back, or if they want them ironed, then that’ll be extra.’ She leaned towards Mary. ‘If you want to join me, we can do twice as much and split ’profit.’

  Mary laughed. She wasn’t sure she had her older sister’s energy. ‘You’re a marvel, Doll. I’ll have a think about it, and don’t forget to approach some of ’bigger houses. They’ll be short on staff cos all ’young girls are going into ’factories instead of into ’service. Like your Ada.’