—You, whispers Maureen, what’s your name?
—Rosie Clark, says Rosa.
—I remember you from interview. You were the one who entered the office before being called.
—And you were the one who thought it would be a good idea, says Rosa.
There is a quiet titter and Maureen frowns.
—Can I have your bread, if you’re not eating it? she says.
—I am eating it, says Rosa, or I’m going to.
Maureen makes a face.
—You’re not English, are you? she says suddenly.
—She’s Dutch, says Betty defensively.
—Clark doesn’t sound very Dutch to me, says Maureen.
—My Dutch name is Klein, says Rosa, reddening.
—Oh, says Maureen brightly, the thin red Klein.
There is another laugh amongst some of the girls, and Rosa’s blushes deepen.
—I rather fancy there’s a whiff of the Hun about you, says Maureen slowly.
—Don’t be stupid, says Betty.
—Don’t you be stupid, says Maureen, you’ve only known each other for five minutes.
Suddenly another voice breaks in.
—Well, I think she’s rather exotic.
They turn to identify the speaker: an older girl, a silver ‘S’ brooch identifying her as a staff probationer, slender and beautiful, with flaxen hair and an elegant bearing. Nobody knows why she is here; she looks as if she will be involved in their training.
—Did you say you were from Holland? she says to Rosa.
—Yes, Amsterdam, Rosa replies.
—I know Amsterdam, says the staff probationer, very picturesque. Take no notice of that girl there. Jealousy is a terrible affliction, especially in those of limited faculties.
Maureen turns white and looks down at her plate.
—My father used to go to Holland frequently, the older nurse continues. He’s with the War Office. Very good people, the Dutch. I’m Lottie Barnes, by the way.
—Rosie Clark.
—A pleasure. Lottie leans towards Rosa conspiratorially.
—I say, she says, we’re having a little do tonight in my room. Some of the medical students are coming over, and there are bound to be several men. How about it? They’d love to hear your tales of Holland, I’m sure. You can come too, if you like, she says to Betty.
There is a hush while all the girls strain to hear Rosa’s response. Betty makes a little squeal of anticipation.
—Thank you, says Rosa nervously, but tonight I must write a letter to my parents. I’m long overdue …
—Of course, says the staff probationer, silly me. Your parents must be still in Holland. You must be frightfully brave.
—I’m sorry …
—Not at all, says Lottie, there’s always a next time, is there not? Lots of people will be dying to meet you once word gets round. I think it’s all terribly exciting.
She smiles and turns back to her food, and a burble of conversation gradually returns. Betty glances across the table and shows Maureen a broad smile.
—Betty, says Rosa, would you like to share my bread roll?
—Don’t mind if I do, says Betty.
After supper the girls return to their rooms to finish their unpacking; lectures begin tomorrow, and an air of apprehension is palpable. Some of them declare that they intend to spend the evening swotting up, though the subject is anyone’s guess; Maureen, having recovered a degree of confidence, is telling people not to bother, she has had a cursory glance through the textbooks and the syllabus looks rather elementary. Half an hour before lights out cocoa is made available in a huge pot in the corridor; they ladle it into metal mugs and return with the bounty to their rooms. It is cold; they put on extra pairs of socks and huddle in blankets, blowing into their hands and warming them on the cocoa. Betty puts on a pair of oversized gentleman’s pyjamas and paces up and down, cradling her mug of cocoa, thinking of what to write to her parents. Rosa lies on her bed with a pad of paper, composing her letter with a stubby pencil, since pen and ink is forbidden in bed and the room does not contain a writing desk. For the first time in many weeks she finds the words coming; they flow from the pencil in spindly grey loops and spread, line by line, down the paper, describing the London Hospital, Merrymeade, her new life, and the minutes slip by unnoticed. Finally she folds the letter crisply and slips it into an envelope; it is only then that she becomes aware of her surroundings, looks up. The room has grown very dim, the blackout curtains are drawn, and the only light is coming from the oil lamp at her bedside, she must have written through lights out. Betty can just be made out in the gloom, lying on her side on her bed, seemingly asleep; from somewhere far along the corridor outside, a hushed conversation is faintly audible.
Rosa places the envelope on her bedside cabinet and is starting to undress when a tiny sob comes from Betty’s side of the room. Or was it a noise made in sleep? Rosa unbuttons her sleeves, carefully, straining her ears into the darkness – another sob, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
—Betty, she whispers, are you all right?
Betty rolls onto her back, her hands over her eyes.
—I’m sorry, Rosie, she says in an uncontrolled voice, I’m sorry.
Rosa crosses to her bed and sits down; the mattress is hard, it gives barely at all.
—What’s the matter? asks Rosa. What’s wrong?
—I’m sorry, says Betty, I shouldn’t make a fuss, especially not to you, what with your family in Holland and everything.
—Are you homesick?
Betty nods tearfully.
—I know it’s silly, she says, but I’ve never been away from home before. And I’ve a sweetheart in the Navy.
Rosa feels her chest tighten, but she takes Betty’s hand and strokes it.
—Don’t worry, she says, you’ll see them all again soon. It will be as if you’ve never been away. Apart from all the heroic stories you’ll have, of course.
Betty giggles through her tears.
—Separation, says Rosa, is only ever temporary. It’s like a dream, as soon as you wake up you won’t remember a thing. Everything will be as good as new, you’ll be back with your sweetheart, and life will be fine.
Betty leans over to her cabinet and blows her nose on a handkerchief.
—Thank you, Rosie, she says. I’m sorry, you must think I’m a frightful bore.
—Not in the least, says Rosa, it’s quite all right.
—Go on, says Betty, you get ready for bed. We’re not supposed to have the light on.
—Good night, then, Betty, says Rosa.
—Good night.
Rosa changes into her nightgown, extinguishes the oil lamp and climbs into her icy bed. As soon as she closes her eyes Samuel appears, smiling against the backdrop of the sea, wind playing in his hair. She finds herself once again rifling through her memories, searching for a giveaway that she might have missed, some indication that he was nothing but a liar and a coward; and once again all she can find is a memory from when he first returned, wounded, from North Africa. Aunt Mimi had taken her to see him in his bedroom, her English was less than perfect at the time, she was shocked to see him so thin and pale, though deep within his eyes burned the fire of defiance that she has never known him to lose – never, that is, until the night when he betrayed her.
—Ah, Rosa, he said, how lovely to see you.
He spoke as if he had encountered an acquaintance in the street. Rosa expressed her condolences and her wishes for him to get better, and they talked for a while of insignificant things, he showed her the jagged barb of shrapnel that he kept by his bed wrapped in newspaper; they almost ran out of conversation. Then Mimi left the room, Rosa cannot recall where she went, but she remembers the earnestness with which Samuel leant over to clutch her wrist, and the delirium in his eyes.
—Rosa, listen. Do you know, I’m a new person, I’m seeing everything through new eyes, past, present and future. I swore to myself that if I pulled throu
gh, if I ever saw you again, I would apologise to you immediately, and now’s the time to do it. I must confess: before I left for war, on several occasions, I went into your room and read your letters. Ah, now that you’re in front of me, in the flesh … do you forgive me? You can’t fathom the pressure. All my life I’ve been told that every moment I was being watched by God, my every move was being scrutinised. You would have thought that would make one behave better, but in reality it just drives everything underground. I mean, your life gets … you’re torn between faith and doubt, you’re worried that God will punish you, and that is what compels you to sin; you sin to challenge him, and if no punishment is brought upon your head, you sin and sin again, and the guilt builds up, but that only makes it worse, it’s a compulsion. I wanted to be part of your life so terribly, but Mother was coming between us, the termites were thriving underground – you don’t understand, Rosa, I can see that, but I read your letters and I am sorry, and this horrible wound is my punishment.
Ah, ah, the distractions of the day are gone and the nightly gallery starts, images appear in flashbulbs: the baby that might have been, her parents and brother and sister, all slipping into her mind like ghosts, illuminated with the vividness of memory by night. And then comes the main scene, played back in her head in minute detail, the colour of the shades on the lights, the roughness of the walls, how the suitcase was straining, how Papa leant over it trying to tighten the buckles, Mama’s expression as she stroked her cheek, the noise of the train, the steam and the night, everything in the most vivid detail, bursting forth into her mind as if it had been looking for an opportunity to make itself known. She rolls onto her side and draws the blankets up to her chin, knowing that another sleepless night awaits.
2
Rosa’s time in Merrymeade passes quickly. Days become a seamless blur of classrooms and textbooks, notes and report forms, dummy legs and bandages, with baths limited to one a week on account of the fragile drainage system, and barely enough time to sleep. By day Rosa is wholly preoccupied with Hygiene, Dietetics, Practical Nursing and Invalid Cookery; everything else is flushed out of her mind, all thoughts of the Kremers, even of her parents. By night she barely has the strength to drink her cocoa before falling into unconsciousness, and she does not notice when the twinges in her womb subside and she is healed.
Each day begins with the rising bell at quarter past six, followed by a cursory wash alongside Betty in their bedroom, using washstands which will be subject to inspection later – each day the rooms must be left surgically clean, with mattresses stripped, bedclothes folded and windows open. Breakfast is at seven o’clock, for which checked sleeves must be worn (they must wear checked sleeves for meals, white sleeves for administering medicine and speaking to doctors, and have bare arms for treatment. To address a doctor sleeveless is considered a heinous offence). Each meal requires a seat rotation so that they all have equal contact with Sister at the table’s head. After breakfast there is an hour of housework, conducted at top speed against Sister’s stopwatch. Following prayers, the lectures begin in the cold and gloomy attics, the bare floorboards of which become so easily filthy that they must be scrubbed daily. After lunch (in checked sleeves) there are more classes, culminating in Practical Nursing between five and seven o’clock, using Mrs Brown, the practice-dummy, who is condemned to forever wear a mackintosh, has been weighted to nine stone and whose skin is so slippery that all bandaging is doomed. Then supper; letter writing; study time; cocoa; bed.”
So the weeks pass, allowing Rosa neither time nor space to dwell upon her family, or Samuel, and finally, like a distant country, examination day arrives. She rises at five o’clock for extra revision, for she refuses to fall at Merrymeade; in candlelight she sits on her bed, turning the pages of her textbook quietly to avoid waking Betty. After breakfast there is a final inspection of uniforms, and then the tests begin, written and oral, practical and theoretical, dragging on throughout the day. When, in the evening, there is the traditional address by Lord Knutsford, who christens Rosa’s set the ‘Speedy Susies’ on account of the anecdotal evidence of a nurse who, in her eagerness, did not realise that a patient in a plaster jacket was lying face down and served his dinner squarely on his back, Rosa finds herself laughing with unusual abandon, and suddenly she knows in her heart that she has passed, but of course she cannot be sure. She goes to bed nervously, wakes up early and along with the other Speedy Susies spends the rest of the day preparing Merrymeade for the next set of students, scrubbing and cleaning and restocking; Betty writes a note containing examination tips and leaves it at the back of an underwear drawer. Finally, in the evening, Rosa is told, to her great relief, that she has passed, she has done it, the future is hers; at that moment something lifts from her shoulders, something so dark and heavy that she is left incredibly buoyant, as light as an angel. Tomorrow she will move to the London Hospital to commence her probationer’s training; Betty has passed too.
The new probationers are driven by Green Line coach the nineteen miles into the scarred heart of the East End; a hush falls upon them as the sooty, sandbag-encircled London Hospital looms out of the smog like a mediaeval fortress. The nurses do not live in the hospital itself, but in four nurses’ homes, which are connected to the hospital by enclosed iron bridges at the fourth floor. Rosa and Betty are both assigned to Cavell House, a large redbrick building with a spacious drawing room and sitting room, flower-print curtains and a smell of wood polish. No longer are they called upon to share a room, but are given their own study-bedrooms, next door to one another, each with a writing desk, an armchair and a window overlooking the nurses’ garden, above which the charcoal London skyline hangs with a dystopian heaviness, and searchlights fan nightly for bombers, and barrage balloons pursue their dull, inanimate defence.
They are shown around the wards, which are cheerful enough, and homely; big coal fires burn at either end, blue check curtains hang beside every bed, the counterpanes are royal blue, and across the foot of all the beds are bright red blankets known as ‘reds’, which are exchanged for older ‘night reds’ in the evenings. A central lobby contains a coal-powered range for warming plates, an urn for boiling water, a medicine cupboard and a harmonium for accompanying daily prayers; annexed to this are the kitchen and the Sisters’ sitting room, and each unit is connected to the rest of the hospital by arterial corridors with signs saying Silence.
The ward equipment is bewildering in its variety. In quick succession they are introduced to the Carbolic Stand for use with infectious patients, equipped with bowls of Lysol solution, cutlery and washing utensils; dressing-trolleys, firm pillows known as ‘donkeys’, an array of lotion bowls and porringers, each with a specific purpose, turpentine enema solutions and carbolics, white earthenware sputum mugs inscribed with THE LONDON HOSPITAL, enamel tooth mugs, rubber water pillows, toothed lice combs, four-fold wooden screens with bright red covers and china bedpans accompanied by white cloths with a maroon trim, which must quite emphatically be used for no other purpose than to cover the patient’s dignity. And they are shown the ledgers and paperwork, including the Head Book, containing a daily list of all the patients in the ward sorted into categories of Clean, Nits and Verminous, which must be signed by Sister each morning, and their own Record Book, in which their progress in training is dispassionately charted.
As a junior probationer, Rosa’s day is spent mostly in the sinkroom, surrounded by racks of bedpans and bottles, brushes and scourers, and row upon row of porcelain pots inscribed S. & M.U. for Saved and Measured Urine. Hour after hour she works, feeling like a butcher in heavy rubbers, holding her breath while slopping out bedpans, trying not to retch, scrubbing them with antiseptic, stacking them ready to be returned to the wards. After bottlewashing she hurries to her room to scrub down, snatch a lunch and claim some extra study time before returning. Apart from Betty she does not make any friends, there is simply no time to socialise; even during the hallowed four o’clock tea break, rather than going to the sitt
ing room with the other girls, she must go straight to her bedroom to consult her dictionary to revise the vocabulary from the morning’s lecture.
Lottie invites her again to a do, but it is the evening before an exam and she cannot attend. The next day the rumour goes round that Sister discovered them and the people involved, including Lottie and two male medical students, were severely reprimanded by Matron and would have been dismissed had Lottie’s father, who works with the War Office, not put in an emotional plea on their behalf; Rosa is relieved that she missed it after all.
The war grinds on; Rosa sees it through the lens of the wards, through conversations with patients, announcements made by Sister and the occasional newspaper headline. The Blitz has passed and Pearl Harbor has been bombed and the Americans have entered the war, and now it all seems to be happening far away, in a different world; in London war has become little more than a long haul of hardship, deprivation and blackouts, with no light to be seen at the end of the tunnel, and endless inconveniences, such as the compulsory leaving of one’s children at nurseries to free up married women for the war effort, and the introduction of milkroundswomen and female road sweepers, which is widely taken as a prophesy of disaster.
One day, during morning bedpans, Lottie Barnes comes into the sinkroom unannounced. She is wearing the striped mauve smock and high-necked apron of the fully fledged staff nurse, and she has no business here in the domain of the junior probationers. Rosa is emptying a bedpan in great gobs into the sluice sink and looks up in surprise, almost drops it; self-consciously she smooths her rubbers, a pointless activity as her predicament is irremediable, there is nothing less dignified than being up to the elbows in brimming bedpans. The other probationers continue their tasks obliviously, facing in the opposite direction; Rosa is manning the sluice sink closest to the door, so she is the first to notice people coming and going. Lottie wrinkles her nose.
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