Women on the Home Front

by Annie Groves

  When she picked up the receiver, Connie was relieved to hear the operator ask, ‘Number please.’ She heard the dialling sound and then the pips went. Connie pressed the money home and a deep velvet voice said ‘Goring 529.’

  She felt her knees go weak. ‘Oh, hello.’ Her voice sounded ridiculously high. Connie cleared her throat and began again. ‘This is Connie Dixon. My mother lives at Belvedere Nurseries. I don’t know if you remember me.’

  ‘I certainly do, Connie Dixon. How are you?’

  ‘I-I’m fine,’ said Connie, ‘but I’m worried about my family. Do you know if they are all right?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Clifford is here,’ said the Frenchie. ‘I’ve got a bit of an emergency and I have to go. Do you want to speak to him?’

  Connie was so relieved but why on earth was Clifford there? ‘Oh yes, yes please.’ As she waited she remembered that Ga had told her they were helping the neighbours.

  ‘Everybody is fine,’ Clifford assured her and went on to tell her what they had been doing. It was much the same as she remembered from Ga’s letter. ‘We’re organising ourselves to go round to some of the old folks and the people with very young families to make sure they are okay,’ he went on. ‘Mandy has her sled and we’ve got blankets and spare hot water bottles and some food. We’re having to dig some of them out. Nobody can remember snow as bad as this.’ She heard someone calling in the background and Clifford said, ‘There’s a small bottle of brandy in that brown bag, just in case.’

  The money didn’t last long but Connie didn’t mind. Everybody at home was well and that was all that mattered. The letter from East Grinstead must have been about somebody else entirely. But who? If it wasn’t about Ga or Mum or Mandy, who else could it have been? Her mind drifted to old friends. What about Irene Thompson? No, she told herself, don’t be ridiculous. Why would a hospital contact her about Irene? She was as fit as a flea, and living in Weston-Super-Mare, a million miles from East Grinstead, and besides, there was no reason to contact Connie, she had her own family.

  Then the thought hit her like a sledge hammer. There was only one other person it could be. Emmett Gosling.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve drawn the short straw,’ Sister said when Connie finally got back on the ward. ‘There’s a private patient in Room 2 who has just been admitted and I’ve assigned you to look after her.’

  The accident ward was still overflowing with people, mostly with broken legs, ankles and wrists from falling on the ice. On the whole, their patients took it in good spirits, probably glad to be in the warm for a bit and so long as the Friendly Society or the assurance company picked up the bill, they didn’t have to worry about the cost.

  Connie recognised her patient as soon as she opened the door. Mavis Hampton had a bandage on her ankle. She lay back on the pillow with a lace handkerchief to her lips. She had been doing her make-up.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hampton,’ Connie said pleasantly. ‘I’m Nurse Dixon and I shall be looking after you until the night staff come on duty.’

  Mavis gave her a cold stare. ‘Then get me some tea. I’m dying of thirst in here.’

  Connie bristled with indignation but she had no alternative but to go. Room 2 was usually reserved for Mr Nankeville’s private patients and he was very particular. When she came back with the tea tray, the Frenchie was sitting beside Mavis’ bed. Connie put the tray down and turned to go.

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ said Eugène and Connie gave him a shy smile. Already her heart was racing. ‘Oh, it’s you, Connie. How nice to see you.’

  As he stood up to open the door for her, Mavis burst into tears. ‘No one cares that I’m in such awful pain.’

  Connie was surprised. Mavis had seemed all right when she’d first come into the room but then she realised that she disliked the woman so much she hadn’t really given a thought to her nursing needs. ‘Would you like me to ask the doctor to see you again, Miss Hampton?’

  ‘Well …’ said Mavis fluttering her eyelids at the Frenchie, ‘I hate to be a nuisance …’

  Connie let the door close quietly behind her as Eugène went back to his fiancée’s bedside. Her first port of the call was the Sister’s desk where she reported Miss Hampton’s pain and Sister sent for Mr Nankeville.

  The rest of Connie’s shift was a complete nightmare. Mavis rang the emergency bell for her flowers to be put in water, for Connie to rearrange her pillows, for more tea when her visitors came and for a bedpan. Connie struggled to keep smiling and to be pleasant especially when there were patients who were far more seriously ill on the ward.

  ‘That woman,’ Sister complained when Connie came to tell her Mavis said her bandage was a little too tight, ‘I’ll swing for her, so I will.’

  The bell rang again. ‘Remind her that bell is only for emergencies,’ Sister called as Connie dashed down the ward.

  ‘But this is an emergency,’ Mavis snapped when Connie relayed the message. ‘I asked you ages ago to put my flowers in a vase and you still haven’t done it.’

  Eugène smiled apologetically which set Connie all at sixes and sevens again. Oh why did he have to be so gorgeous looking? she thought bitterly. And why were all the nice men taken?

  Clifford seemed preoccupied about something. Gwen put Mandy to bed and suggested he take them to the Bull for a drink. It was the only place where they could be sure of being alone. Gwen was grateful to Ga for giving them a home and the business, but the trouble was, she was always there. She never went out with friends, Gwen wasn’t even sure she had any, apart from Aggie and even she only turned up once a week. Ga never went to Aggie’s house. Ga had become more and more demanding and the atmosphere between Ga and Clifford was getting worse all the time. They had little money from the nurseries because Ga was always talking about investing everything in the future.

  ‘When I’m dead and gone,’ she would say, ‘it’ll all be yours.’

  Gwen sighed. She was tired of waiting for jam tomorrow. She wanted to live for today. Who knew how long they would have to wait? Ga was hale and hearty and besides she didn’t like to think about somebody dying before they could enjoy their lives. How much longer they could put up with it, Gwen didn’t know. She and Clifford never had a moment to themselves. Gwen wouldn’t have minded so much if Ga had offered to babysit now and again, but the thought never seemed to cross her mind. The only chance they had to go out was when Connie came home and since the bad weather started, they hadn’t been out at all. Usually Worthing was well protected by the South Downs. The terrible weather they had in the east of the county and Kent seldom reached Worthing and the surrounding villages, but this year the town had enough snow to cover the top of a wellington boot.

  Mandy was asleep and Ga downstairs so rather than ask her to babysit and have her refuse, Clifford told her they were going out. She looked a bit put out but Gwen and her husband wrapped up warmly and made their way to Goring Street. The Bull Inn had been built around 1770 and was near the old post office. Because of its thick walls, the building had been used as a mortuary and an extension built in the late eighteen hundreds was used as a butcher’s shop. In a more sombre mood, Ga had a picture of a funeral procession leaving the Bull in 1907 when two of her acquaintances, Sid Orchard and Fred Wadey were killed by a bolt of lightning on Highdown. They were only nineteen and twenty-two years old.

  They opened the door and were greeted by a warm fire and an equally warm welcome from a few of the locals gathered at the bar. After swapping a few snowbound stories, Gwen and Clifford made their way to the fire, sat next to each other and held hands. As bad as things were, Gwen thanked God every day that Clifford had made it through the war. They all had. At least, she hoped they had. Whatever happened to Kenneth?

  Clifford pushed her glass of sherry towards her. ‘Drink up,’ he smiled, seeing her sad expression. ‘A couple more days of mild weather and maybe I can get to those root vegetables still in the ground. That’ll bring in a bit of an income.’

  ‘We still
have a bit of savings,’ said Gwen. She kept the books and she was a shrewd woman. ‘I’ve always put a bit by in case of bad times and this is the first time we’ve used it.’

  ‘I should be paid a proper wage,’ he said acidly.

  Gwen looked away. He was right and she was embarrassed for him. ‘I wish I’d never persuaded you to stay,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Gwennie,’ he said squeezing her hand. ‘If the old lady would only agree to sell the end plot, it would make all the difference.’

  ‘She doesn’t like change,’ said Gwen.

  ‘We have to move with the times,’ said Clifford. ‘The nursery is too small to make a decent living. We have to diversify if we’re going to make a go of things.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want to provide well for you and Mandy,’ Clifford went on, ‘not pinch and scrape all our lives.’

  ‘I know, darling.’

  ‘If she won’t sell it,’ Clifford went on, ‘the Frenchie suggested putting up a workshop on the land. If we rented it out, that would bring in a good income. Regular too.’

  ‘Do you want me to try and talk to her?’ said Gwen.

  Clifford looked uncertain. ‘I’d like to say yes, but I don’t want her sending you to Coventry as well. One person in the family is enough.’ He took a sip of his beer and sighed. ‘You and Mandy deserve better than this, Gwennie.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ she said reassuringly.

  The lapsed into silence and then she said, ‘You’re worried about something else, aren’t you?’

  ‘Me? No.’

  Gwen looked him in the eye. ‘Clifford, we promised we would never lie to each other or hold anything back. What is it you’re worrying about?’

  He sighed. ‘Not much gets past you, Gwennie,’ he smiled. He took another swig of his drink as if to give himself some Dutch courage. ‘We’ve been helping a lot of people since the snow came …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now it seems that some things are going missing.’

  Gwen frowned. ‘Gone missing?’

  ‘Aunt Aggie told me that Mrs Wright has lost a pearl brooch, Granny Morrison says her late husband’s watch is missing and Reverend McKay in St Mary’s says someone has tampered with the collection box at the back of the church.’

  Gwen took in her breath. ‘But who would do such a thing?’

  ‘It’s not always the same people who go out at the same time. That leaves us with three distinct possibilities,’ said Clifford. ‘The Frenchie, Isaac Light and me. The only certainty is that it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I can’t believe either of them would steal.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Clifford, ‘but it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.’

  ‘And you are worried that if this gets out it could ruin our reputation?’ said Gwen.

  ‘I think it may already have damaged the Frenchie,’ said Clifford. ‘Two of his biggest customers have gone elsewhere.’

  ‘That could be down to the weather,’ said Gwen.

  ‘Could be, I suppose,’ said Clifford but he looked far from convinced.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ said Gwen.

  Clifford drained his glass. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Thank God the thaw is on its way.’

  As he made his way back to the bar for another drink, Gwen chewed her cheek thoughtfully. What sort of person took advantage of people in dire straits? These were hard times and they couldn’t afford to lose the goodwill they had built up over the years. She’d better tell Clifford to steer clear of the Frenchie and Isaac until this had all blown over.

  Thirteen

  As soon as Connie came off duty, Eva drew her attention to the notice board in the nurses’ home. ‘Have you seen this?’

  Home Sister had stuck a memo on the board. Staff will please note that because of the present situation, the hospital laundry is operating a three day week. This means delays in getting clean uniforms and sheets are inevitable. Nurses may be required to wash their own dresses if necessary. Collection of pink boxes are as follows … There followed a list of numbers. Connie’s box wasn’t due for collection until next week.

  ‘At this rate, I’ll never get my letter,’ she groaned.

  ‘What letter?’ asked Eva and Connie explained.

  ‘You might be in luck,’ said Eva. ‘What with all the power cuts, they might not have got around to washing the nurses’ uniforms yet.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Connie cautiously.

  ‘I’m on an early tomorrow,’ said Eva brightly. ‘I could go over there in person and ask for you if you like.’

  ‘Better still,’ smiled Connie. ‘We could both go together. I’m on an early too.’

  As soon as they’d finished their duty they’d met up at 2.15 p.m. and wrapping up warmly, set out for the laundry.

  ‘When the laundry comes in,’ said the supervisor after Connie told her why they’d come, ‘the girls go through every box.’ She led them into a heat-filled room. There were several large presses and a long bare wood table. In the middle of the table was a large pile of sheets. Two girls were folding the sheets while a third woman eased them through the press. Every time she brought the heavy pad down to press the sheet free of creases, a hiss of steam filled the air.

  ‘You’d be surprised what we find in the pockets,’ the supervisor said, not stopping for any introductions. The women looked up as Connie and Eva walked through the steam room but nobody smiled. ‘Bus tickets, hankies, pocket books, pens,’ the supervisor was on a roll now. ‘We found a bottom set of teeth once,’ she cackled and turned around.

  ‘What did you do with them?’ Connie asked anxiously.

  ‘Everything gets sent back,’ said the supervisor with emphasis. ‘It gets put into a brown paper bag and left in the laundry box.’

  ‘That’s why Betty had that half a sandwich in her laundry box,’ Eva said behind her hand and into Connie’s ear.

  Connie smiled. They’d all had a laugh when Betty showed them. It was rock solid and going mouldy. Betty binned it.

  ‘The trouble is,’ said the supervisor going deeper and deeper into the building, ‘everything has got out of kilter. We’ve got far too many boxes and not enough room.’

  They had arrived beside a brown door. The supervisor flung it open and Connie took in her breath.

  ‘Lummy Charlie,’ gasped Eva.

  The room was packed floor to ceiling with pink boxes. ‘We not only do the laundry from this hospital but Swandean and Courtlands as well,’ said the supervisor. She took a tally book from a shelf. ‘What was your number?’

  ‘Triple seven,’ said Connie faintly. It would take hours to go through all this lot.

  ‘It’s in here somewhere,’ the supervisor said cheerfully. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  It took them twenty minutes before Eva found Connie’s box because the number was facing the wall but a second later, all her letters were in her hands. Connie tore open the envelope while Eva rearranged the boxes back into place. ‘Why don’t you wait until we get back to the nurses’ home?’ she cautioned.

  ‘Because I can’t wait a second longer,’ said Connie turning the upside down paper the right way up. As she read, she could feel the colour draining from her face.

  ‘Connie? Whatever is it? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

  The supervisor walked back into the room. ‘Ah,’ she smiled. ‘You’ve obviously found it. Not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Connie, knowing that the woman was concerned that there had been a death in the family. ‘Someone I thought I would never see again has been terribly injured.’

  They walked back to the nurses’ home in silence. Connie was desperately trying to absorb what the letter had said.

  ‘Come to my room,’ said Eva. ‘I’ve got some cherry brandy. It’s not much but you look as if you could do with something.’

  Connie sat on the bed and took out the letter again while Eva found a glass and was
hed her tooth mug. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ Eva began.

  Connie swirled the dark liquid a couple of times and then downed it in one. It was heavy and sweet, not exactly pleasant to her palate and it burned on the way down. She shuddered involuntarily.

  ‘I know,’ said Eva. ‘It tastes pretty ghastly but it does the trick.’

  ‘Dear Miss Dixon,’ Connie read aloud, ‘I am writing to you about your brother Kenneth Dixon. I am sorry the writing is so lousy, but it’s the best I can do. I know the hospital has been in contact with your mother but she has never replied. We made contact through a local charity which helps ex-servicemen and they gave us your address.’

  ‘What on earth does that mean?’ Eva interrupted.

  Connie shrugged. ‘I can’t believe that Mum has never replied to their letters. She wants nothing more in the world than to find my brother.’

  ‘I remember you said you’d lost touch,’ said Eva sitting on the bed beside her.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Connie, ‘suffice to say that he walked out of our lives in 1938 and we’ve never heard from him since.’

  Eva pulled a face. ‘Do you think this letter is on the level?’

  Connie shrugged again.

  ‘Go on with the letter,’ said Eva jerking her head.

  ‘We are both at the Queen Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead,’ Connie continued. ‘We are looked after in an ex-army Nissen hut at the back of the main building. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Matron is a thoroughly good egg and turns a blind eye to our grogging parties and Mr McIndoe, or the Maestro as we call him, gives the chaps their lives back again. We enjoy the Sussex countryside and those who are well enough can play tennis and squash. Your brother hasn’t quite made it to the courts yet. He still has a bit of work to be done on his hand. He is making really good progress but I know he longs for some contact with you or any member of your family. The Skipper on our ward seems to think it would speed up his recovery if you could find it in your heart to forgive him. We have no idea what it’s all about but the guilt he carries weighs him down. If, for any reason, you find it too hard, I should like to offer myself as a mediator. Could you please contact me at the above address? Kenneth has no idea that I have written to you. Yours Sincerely, William Garfield.’