The Girl from Simon's Bay

by Barbara Mutch

  ‘Shortly,’ Commodore Budgen glanced at the stranger, who nodded, ‘a ship is going to dock here to embark a special cargo to be transported to the United States. You will report for duty on this vessel as liaison officer.’

  ‘I will not be serving as gunnery officer?’

  ‘No,’ the stranger spoke for the first time, revealing a strong American accent. ‘We have our own, sir. You will be a guest of the US Navy.’

  ‘You will represent His Majesty’s Government,’ Budgen continued, ‘and ensure this cargo reaches its destination in good order.’

  ‘See,’ the stranger leant forward and favoured David with a gentle smile, ‘we could also use some of your combat experience on the way. Just in case. This is one cargo we don’t want to lose.’

  ‘I understand, sir. May I know the nature of the cargo?’

  ‘Only once on board, sir,’ the man said, with an air of regret, ‘if you don’t mind.’

  Budgen cleared his throat. ‘I have also been instructed by the Admiralty to inform you that you are being promoted to lieutenant commander with immediate effect. Congratulations.’

  David fought to keep his expression neutral. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  A promotion while sidelined from active duty? His friend Bob would have a spicy comment to make about that.

  Budgen and the American stood up. David managed to get to his feet in time.

  ‘You will be informed when to report for duty, Lieutenant Commander. And congratulations, belatedly, for your action at the River Plate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And sir,’ he nodded to the American who inclined his head, opened the door to the ward, and slipped through.

  ‘Good luck,’ Commodore Budgen adjusted his gold-encrusted headgear. ‘My compliments to your uncle at the Admiralty when you see him.’

  David watched them make their way through the ward, herded by Sister.

  He turned to stare over the bay. A flock of seagulls was circling above a fishing boat off Long Beach. Their raucous cries echoed up the mountainside.

  The first time he wore the DSO on his uniform, Elizabeth ran her fingers over it and then hovered the same fingers over the scar that snaked across his temple.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’

  ‘No, not any more.’

  The pain was deeper inside now, and more complicated; partly assuaged by the kindness of Sub Lieutenant Owen’s parents when he met them, but revived every time Tompkins’s shattered torso rose before him, or when he recalled the courage of the now deaf Nott – his hearing destroyed in the blast – as he learnt to walk again with a cane.

  ‘Have to learn to dance,’ Nott whispered, when David visited him in hospital, ‘seeing as I can’t hold a tune any more …’

  In newspapers, the battle was trumpeted as a resounding and long-awaited Allied success. The private tragedies that lay behind it were known only to those directly involved and they, like David, mostly kept quiet.

  ‘Lieutenant?’

  Staff Nurse Ahrendts was standing by his chair.

  ‘I go off duty at four-thirty tomorrow,’ she glanced back at the ward. ‘Would you like to take a walk? To help you get fitter,’ she added, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s very generous.’

  She glanced around again, clearly worried about being overheard.

  ‘I’ll be on the path by the old aerial ropeway,’ she said, then stepped back through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cloud was heaping itself in stratified layers on top of the mountain as I climbed towards the ropeway at the appointed time. Lieutenant Horrocks was waiting for me. Wind tossed the pines behind him. I glanced around swiftly. No one else about. And no sign of marauding baboons. A walk would be fine but he was in no shape for evasive action.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lieutenant,’ I lofted my voice above the wind.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, then gestured to the fynbos-clad slopes, the limpid bay. ‘I imagine you must be used to all this splendour?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s always special to me. And the sea is never the same.’

  I stopped at his side, but a little further away from him than would be customary for two people about to take a walk. He was wearing a pair of light trousers and an open-necked shirt. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be in civilian clothes rather than the anonymity of hospital pyjamas or his regular uniform. He looked at me directly, his eyes free of the wariness of the ward.

  ‘Is this difficult for you, being here with me? Would you rather I went on alone?’

  ‘You can’t walk alone,’ I said, glancing at the way he was standing, favouring his right side where the wound was.

  ‘I’m fine, really. But I could use a guide,’ he smiled, trying to set me at my ease.

  I began to walk slowly along a gravel track that rose at a gentle incline above the hospital. Serrated-leaf proteas rose on either side of us, screening the row of wards below and the rocky heights of the Simonsberg above. The crisp, resin scent of the pines floated down. I took care to place my feet deliberately between the stones on the path, and hoped that he would follow my route. It wouldn’t do for him to fall, or sprain an ankle.

  ‘I see you’re working more in theatre these days. Do you like it?’

  ‘Oh, yes! It’s wonderful.’ I stopped and turned back to him. ‘They’re training me. The surgeon commander says I have an instinct—’ I broke off. ‘I like being on the ward, too.’

  ‘It gets you away from Sister Graham,’ he observed, amusement flickering in his eyes.

  ‘Sister is very efficient.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, she may be efficient, but she treats her staff poorly. I know nothing about hospitals, but if they’re anything like ships, a dictatorship doesn’t work.’

  I stared at him. He plucked a leaf from a nearby protea and rolled it between his fingers and sniffed. I wasn’t used to patients expressing opinions. Or speaking to me as if I was an equal.

  ‘It’s an honour for me to be at the hospital.’

  He examined me. I became aware that the breeze had teased part of my hair from beneath my cap. This man had no physical secrets from me, and yet here I was, embarrassed that he should see my hair unpinned.

  ‘You’re very loyal, Nurse Ahrendts.’

  ‘Grateful, actually,’ I looked away from his appraisal. ‘The war’s given me an opportunity I wouldn’t have had in peacetime. A little … difficulty … isn’t going to put me off.’

  The wind gusted. I reached behind to unfasten my cloak. He made to help but then withdrew his hand. I looped the cloak over my arm. A pair of sugarbirds swooped down to perch on top of a nearby protea, their ribbon tails flying up in the wind.

  ‘Cape sugarbirds,’ I said, following his gaze. ‘Do you miss your home? Or is that what you’re escaping from?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ He gave me a wry glance.

  ‘Look,’ I said, pointing to a flat rock further along the path, ‘we can stop there for a moment. You don’t want to do too much on your first outing.’

  I folded my cloak inside out and sat on it. He levered himself carefully down at my side, but not too close. The setting sun began to strike the bay horizontally, deepening the troughs between the turquoise swells and turning them a rich indigo.

  ‘I’ve been escaping since I was eighteen,’ he remarked. ‘I presume your life wasn’t mapped out for you from birth?’

  ‘Oh yes, it was!’ I laughed. ‘You were expected to know your place. Women like me have only ever been destined for domestic service.’

  ‘So you’ve broken the mould?’

  ‘I have! I had a dream, and I managed to follow it. My family and friends were upset, of course – you can’t break away without causing some resentment – but now I’m independent. Well,’ I tilted my head and flashed him a glance, ‘almost.’

  David Horrocks grinned. It made him look younger, the scar no longer dominating.

  ‘And if y
ou married? What then?’

  I gasped.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he put in quickly. ‘I don’t mean to be impolite. But I’ve seen how good you are, and I think you could reach the top of your profession. Be a matron one day.’

  I clapped a hand across my mouth.

  ‘Why not?’ he smiled. ‘You have all the qualities.’

  But the wrong colour, I wanted to shout, whatever my qualities! Sister, yes. But matron?

  ‘Whereas I,’ he went on lightly, as if he sensed he’d touched a nerve, ‘have no choice. I have to leave the sea when the war’s over.’ He got stiffly to his feet. ‘Shall we go a little further? It’s wonderful to be outside.’

  ‘Of course.’ I scrambled to my feet and followed him. He walked steadily, but with a slight limp. St George’s Street unwound like a ribbon below us, crowded with workers heading from the dockyard towards the station. A pair of minesweepers bustled out of the harbour entrance. Just up from St George’s, our row of whitewashed cottages perched against the lower slope. I recognised our washing flapping on the line.

  Lieutenant Horrocks sat down gingerly on a convenient rock. The sun glanced off a window.

  He flinched and touched his scar.

  ‘Lieutenant?’

  He bent his head and pressed his fists against his eyes. His hair, longer than it would normally be because of the stay in hospital, fell forward, curtaining the side of his face.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ I laid my hand on his shoulder.

  He didn’t react.

  I rubbed gently. ‘You’re safe here.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He straightened up, unclenching his hands. ‘For a moment there, the reflection—’

  ‘Tell me.’ I crouched down at his side.

  His eyes – so pale you could almost see through them – met mine. He looked away, towards the docks and the cluster of warships, as if searching for something. His voice, when it came, was steady.

  ‘I was back on Achilles. My sub lieutenant was killed, Nott was wounded and Tompkins was screaming for his mother. I couldn’t see through the blood in my eyes,’ he lifted his hand to tap the scar. ‘I’m sorry to be so graphic.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ I said, and paused before going on. ‘I know about your battle. The seamen from your ship said you saved their lives.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I nursed them,’ I replied gently. ‘They arrived from the Falklands. They talked of their lieutenant who kept firing, who won the DSO.’

  He stared at me. The sun slipped away from the reflecting window that had so bothered him, and hovered above Red Hill in preparation for its evening plunge towards the Atlantic.

  ‘You are my patient,’ I murmured, ‘please don’t be embarrassed.’

  David Horrocks’ breathing returned to normal. His shoulders relaxed. I knew we should return, it was getting late and the wind was rising. Soon it would be dangerous to be on the mountain if you were uncertain on your feet. But, at this moment, he shouldn’t be alone. I remained on my haunches by his side, but no longer touching him.

  ‘That’s where I live,’ I said, pointing out Ricketts Terrace. ‘I was born there. I see the sea every morning from our doorstep.’

  A wisp of smoke curled from a lopsided chimney. The younger Gamiels were playing hide-and-seek beneath the palm trees, their shouts drifting up the mountain. I wondered what he saw, or what any stranger would see. Only the poverty? Or would he sense beneath it the warmth – and occasional friction – of close neighbours who looked out for one another? I felt a strange wash of emotion, a longing for something that was slipping away even as I sat looking at it. I reached down to rub the familiar, gritty soil of the path between my fingers but I knew that wouldn’t bring it back. I’d outstripped Ricketts Terrace. I still loved it, it was my home, but it couldn’t hold me any longer, or dictate what I’d do. Like Piet could no longer hold me. It was exhilarating – frightening—

  ‘Shall we go back?’ he asked, getting to his feet and holding out a hand to help me up. If he sensed the turmoil beneath my silence, he gave no sign.

  I swung my cloak back about me and led the way. From further along the mountain came the steady hoot of guinea fowl heading to their roosts. As we approached the spot from where we’d set off, he spoke from behind me.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

  I turned to face him. He was calm, back in control. ‘Not at all. You can make your own way back to the ward?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated, searching my face. ‘You shouldn’t give up on your dream. We only get one chance to make something of ourselves.’

  My eyes fell on the ring on his finger.

  ‘You, too. Good evening, Lieutenant.’

  We shook hands formally, his skin cool against my palm.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I have never intentionally breached nursing etiquette. My blurted invitation to David Horrocks was as much of a shock to me as it was to him. I told myself it came from sympathy, a desire to be kind. Not Piet-kindness – pretending to love him until he got back on his feet – but genuine kindness. David Horrocks needed taking out of himself. And so it proved. The flashback to his battle may have been distressing, but perhaps it served a purpose in coming by day instead of by night. Perhaps he’d sleep easier.

  I don’t regret doing what I did.

  ‘Thank you, Staff Nurse,’ the surgeon commander dropped his gloves into the kidney bowl, ‘excellent anticipation. Stay with Seaman Dawson until he recovers consciousness and then wheel him back. No solids.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  The surgeon commander stopped at the door. ‘I never wanted to send you back to False Bay Hospital.’ He pushed through the door against a gusting wind.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  I watched the steady rise and fall of Dawson’s chest, savouring the lull after the urgency of surgery. Even without the order, I always stayed with my patient so he saw a familiar face when he came round. That hadn’t been the case with David Horrocks. I first caught sight of him, barely conscious, as he was wheeled by an orderly into the ward following his emergency operation. The theatre nurse was already scrubbing up for another procedure. As I moved towards him, Sister Graham ordered me to help one of the juniors fix a cast and so the lieutenant had woken up, disoriented, before I could get to him. That night, his screams for his injured crew woke the ward. I’m not saying his nightmares could have been prevented, or the damaging flashbacks reversed, but healing often hangs by an elusive thread.

  The seaman’s eyes flickered.

  ‘Seaman Dawson?’ I took his hand.

  The young man opened his eyes, stared about wildly, then registered me at his side.

  ‘You’ve had your operation. You’re going to be fine.’ I squeezed his hand gently. ‘I’m going to wheel you back to the ward now.’

  I propped open the door and manoeuvred the trolley through. Post-operatives were usually put close to the nurses’ station. I’d settle Dawson, then return to sterilise the instruments and scrub the theatre. As I straightened the trolley, I noticed the empty bed at the far end of the ward.

  ‘Nurse?’ I said to the VAD emerging from the sluice, ‘where is Lieutenant Horrocks?’

  ‘Discharged,’ VAD Wilson said, over her shoulder. ‘This morning. Promoted, too. Didn’t you hear?’

  ‘Staff Nurse Ahrendts!’ Sister Graham came up at a clip. ‘I trust you will be with us for the afternoon round?’

  ‘I have to sterilise the instruments first, Sister, and then clean the theatre—’

  ‘Well, look smart, Nurse. We can’t have the ward round delayed.’

  ‘Seaman Dawson is just conscious, Sister. I’ll check him and then finish in theatre.’

  ‘As quickly as possible.’ Sister swept off with a rustle of starched skirt.

  In the quiet of the operating theatre, I boiled the surgical instruments for the specified time, lifted them out with tongs and laid them carefully side by side in the
correct order on metal trays. There was no reason why Lieutenant Horrocks should have waited to speak to me before being discharged. In fact, it would have been unprofessional of him to do so. I boiled more water, collected a brush and began to scrub the floor in sweeping arcs, reversing on my knees from the far end of the theatre. A fine layer of dust had blown in under the door. My collar dampened with perspiration.

  He was refreshing. On our walk, he hadn’t behaved like a patient at all, in fact more like someone walking out with me for pleasure. His blue eyes met mine directly, he even felt comfortable enough to criticise – actually, to neatly skewer – Sister. I smiled as I scrubbed. Sister as dictator! How apt! I plunged the brush into the soapy water for one final pass, then washed the bucket and cloths and returned them to their cupboard.

  The wind raised its voice to a new pitch.

  I think he enjoyed talking to me. And I—

  But perhaps he’d had second thoughts, and felt it wiser to impose some distance. He was an officer, after all. I was only a respite, a temporary bandage against the war and the future that held him captive. The afternoon ward round proceeded on schedule. While grouped around the final patient’s bed, Matron’s discerning eye picked up a ball of fluff on the floor, and, to Sister’s mortification, lectured the company on the importance of twice-daily sweeping during windy periods. Worse was to follow because Seaman Dawson, after being moved from the trolley to a bed, suffered an attack of nausea and vomited before I could get a bowl to him. It took close on an hour to change his sheets and pyjamas, clean the trolley and bed, dispose of the soiled linen, mop the floor, and settle the poor young man down. And all this had to be accomplished under the irate eye of Sister, still smarting from the incident with the fluff ball.

  An hour later I spotted Pa waiting for me halfway up Rectory Steps. He shaded his eyes against the late-afternoon glare and the rising southeaster, and waved. Whenever our shifts coincided, he always climbed up to meet me even though his knees ached from crouching over hot machines and all he longed to do was rest and let Ma fuss around him.