—The course of true love never did run smooth, comes a voice, do you know where that’s from?
Samuel opens his eyes dizzily and looks over to the next bed. A pale-eyed, melancholy fellow is sitting in his pyjamas with his legs dangling over the side of the mattress, his sergeant-major’s moustache twitching as he smokes a cigarette.
—I’m sorry, says Samuel groggily, are you addressing me?
—That quotation, says the man, where’s it from? The course of true love never did run smooth.
—I don’t know, says Samuel. John Donne?
—Bunkum. It’s Shakespeare. Lysander to Hermia, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Samuel blinks a few times to clear his head.
—What do they call you? says the man, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.
—Call me? says Samuel.
—Yes, says the man, your name.
—Ah, it’s Kremer.
—They call me Captain Farrow. Ex-RAF. I can see you’ve a Bunyan bag on that arm. That’s an RAF technique, you know. You look like you’ve been knocked about a bit, Kremer.
—I’m all right, says Samuel, it’s nothing serious. What are you in here for?
—Acute depression and hysteria, says Farrow, tried to drown myself on Aldgate.
—On Aldgate?
—I know, I know, there’s no water on Aldgate. Apart from the Emergency Water Supply tank, if you must know. Seemed like a damn good idea at the time. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission.
—Well put.
—Robert Burns, says Farrow, sucking on his cigarette, I’m surprised you didn’t recognise it.
—My head hurts, says Samuel, more to himself than to Farrow.
—To die in order to avoid the pain of poverty, love, or anything that is disagreeable, is not the part of a brave man, but of a coward. I’m a coward, you see, Kremer.
—Everyone is a coward in his time, says Samuel.
—Where can you find it? says Farrow.
—Find what?
—That quotation.
—Which quotation?
—To die in order to avoid, et cetera.
—I’m afraid I don’t particularly care.
—Aristotle.
Farrow smiles smugly, snorts into his moustache and presses his cigarette into an ashtray. Samuel turns away from those unnerving pale eyes and begins to wish the man had succeeded in the water tank.
—I have on my bedside table a notched candle by which to ration my nightly reading, says Farrow, coughing. I would recommend it.
—Indeed, says Samuel weakly.
—What are you after that nurse for, says Farrow, if you don’t mind me asking.
—We’re friends, says Samuel, from some time ago.
—Oh, I know all about that sort of thing. Seen a lot of that sort of thing in my time. Do you know the conclusion I have arrived at?
—I suppose you’re going to tell me.
—Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.
—A quotation, I presume?
—Hermann Hesse. And he’s a German.
—I thought he was Swiss.
—German by birth. And he attempted suicide.
—A kindred spirit.
—Do you know what I would do if I were you? Write her a note, a romantic note. Include some quotations from the greats. Come live with me and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove, of golden sands, and crystal beaches, with silken lines and silver hooks …
—I don’t think that would be appropriate.
—What do you mean, not appropriate? It’s Donne.
—The fishing metaphor, it’s not appropriate.
—Of course it is.
—Well, Mr Farrow, it’s been a pleasure but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some convalescing to do.
—Of course.
Samuel, his head hurting more than ever, turns his head away from Farrow and closes his eyes, wishing that he could get out of bed and draw the curtain for the sake of privacy. But perhaps the old nincompoop was right – perhaps a note would be a good idea. As soon as I get my arm out of this blasted bag—
—One more thing, Mr Kremer. Mr Kremer?
—What is it?
—‘Three Pleas’, by Henry Treece.
He clears his throat for recital, like a schoolboy.
—Mr Farrow, there is truly no need to recite any more poetry, says Samuel, but he is unable to stop him. Farrow intones:
Stand by me, Death, lest these dark days
Should hurt me more than I may know;
I beg that if the wound grows sharp
You take me when I ask to go.
He comes to a halt, clearly unable to remember the rest, and the verse lingers in the cold air.
—Thank you, Mr Farrow, for your insights, says Samuel.
—Not at all, old boy, says Farrow dreamily. Now I must get some rest. If you’ll excuse me.
He salutes courteously and climbs back into bed.
3
It is several days before Samuel is relieved of the Bunyan bag and his arm is dressed and bandaged. Still Rosa is avoiding him, and if it weren’t for Betty Robinson still sending him withering looks whenever she passes, he would be inclined to think that the entire episode was simply a figment of his imagination. Taking Mr Farrow’s advice, he starts a letter to Rosa; he has no clue how he might deliver it to her but he decides, anyway, to compose it. Leaning awkwardly on the back of an injection tray he writes, crossing out, rephrasing, until the page is a mess of blotches and scribbles. But he perseveres, and finishes the letter, and gradually his health improves, and then the day comes when he is allowed to walk around the ward, leaning heavily on his drip-stand. Doctor Rowlands tells him that soon he will be transferred to a sector hospital – the window of opportunity, Samuel realises, is closing. As soon as he has enough strength, he vows to himself, he will escape into the labyrinth of the hospital, find Rosa and give her the letter himself.
One night, a few hours after darkness has fallen, there is another air raid. Moaning Minnie sounds at ten o’clock, but as ever there is little that can be done for the bed-bound patients. The usual procedure rumbles into action, and the wards are readied for fresh casualties: the centre lights are covered with the night’s red shades, bedclothes are folded back, dressing-trolleys equipped, hot water bottles prepared and arranged in the beds. At half past ten the first bombs can be heard. Then the electricity fails and is replaced by the dim glow of lamps and candles and emergency lights. Samuel, lying in his bed next to Mr Farrow, watches the shadows play across the walls and ceiling, listens to the booms and rattles that echo into the night, some distant, others closer, one near enough to make the sooty windows vibrate. Ironically, Farrow lights a cigarette and his section of the ward becomes infused with smoke. Bide your time, Samuel thinks, bide your time until the chaos starts. He waits as the minutes creep by, his bandaged head propped up on a pile of pillows, reading through half-closed eyes the movement of the ward. The nurses are in the final stages of preparation, warming pans of Milton solution, the blue flames of the Primus stoves glowing in the half-light like deepwater fish. Sister patrols up and down the ward, hands clasped firmly behind her back, issuing curt orders from under her helmet. The emphasis is on attention to every last detail, and Samuel knows he must wait.
As the night wears on the gunfire and bombing become more intense. Samuel, torn up inside, lies on his back watching the windows rattle, hoping that the gummed strips that criss-cross them would be enough should the windows be blown in, watching the nurses hurry past with armfuls of equipment. He has a bad feeling, an instinctive sense of dread, which he tries to dismiss. High up towards the ceiling triangular wooden beams have been newly erected to reinforce the roof; it looks stable, they have done a good job, made the structure a good deal more resilient to enemy action, surely it would be madness to venture out on his mission, during an air
raid, in his state; although his headache is manageable enough when lying down, he has to accept that apart from a single walk around the ward he has been lying in bed for days. What’s more, he is still on a drip – surely it would be madness to wander around the hospital, pushing his drip-stand like a barrel organ, hoping to chance upon Rosa? He reaches over and takes his letter in his hand. He is due to be transferred soon, the doctor said, and if that were to happen he risks losing Rosa again, forever, after having come so close. It would be madness to lie here and do nothing.
Half an hour later, the first casualties arrive; there is a burned and blackened man who cannot bear the bedsheets to be lowered onto his skin, a young lad with both legs in makeshift splints who is taken straight to theatre and several people in states of unconsciousness, covered in white dust, looking like statues in the gloom. As the night wears on, more and more casualties are deposited in the beds from green wire stretchers which are then returned to the Receiving Room for another load; moans and cries begin to fill the air, and still Samuel waits.
Finally he sees his chance: there is a bang close at hand, everyone ducks, and a bucket of firefighting sand tumbles from its hook; a foggy sand haze rises into the air, there is the sound of screams and nurses’ voices, and the endless pattering of footsteps. Now, thinks Samuel, do it now. Gingerly he raises himself on one elbow, holding his bandaged arm in front of him, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He unbandages the drip, exposes the needle and plucks it from his vein like a bee-sting; fluid falls from the needle as it swings against the wall. He has to move now. The ward swims and he closes his eyes until it settles. Bombs are falling with irregular thuds, the floor is vibrating beneath his feet. Carefully he reaches down and laces his shoes. The movement causes his head to throb, he leans back on his good elbow and pauses. Then he gets shakily to his feet, shivers from the cold and pulls his heavy ARP greatcoat over his pyjamas – it feels heavier than he remembers, and the wool is cold to the touch. He feels in the pocket and his fingers brush against the smooth cylinder of his blackout torch, good, it’s still there, bravo. He slides the letter carefully into his breast pocket; as he does so he catches eyes with the morbid-looking Mr Farrow who stubs out his cigarette and gives him the thumbs-up. Samuel slings his gas mask over his shoulder and makes his way stealthily along the ward, covering his face against the smell of disinfectant and smoke, past row after row of beds in which semi-conscious patients groan, until he reaches the double doors. He opens them a crack and peers furtively through – the corridor is deserted. The double doors swing together with a clack behind him.
—Nurse, calls a patient into the gloom, nurse?
Rosa stops in her tracks and squints through the greyness. She can just make out a middle-aged woman sitting bolt upright in bed, her hair gathered under a hairnet, her face ghostly in the gloom. She glances at her chart-board: Mrs Wilson.
—Yes, says Rosa, what is it?
—My bedpan needs changing, nurse.
Without a word Rosa puts down the bottle of carbolic solution she is carrying, pulls the curtain closed and squats beside the bed, biting her tongue in frustration. If only Sister had respected her judgement more! Rosa knows she does not need to rest, she was quite happy working on the First Aid post; she would rather be working hard amongst the blood and dirt than be stuck here in Currie, the women’s convalescence ward, doing nothing but emptying bedpans and filling water pillows, especially during an air raid.
—I think hospital food might not agree with me, says Mrs Wilson, it’s given me a touch of the runs.
Rosa glances at the chart-board on which is inscribed ‘I’ for meat, ‘II’ for fish, ‘J&C’ for jelly and custard, and ‘Nil etc’ for nil by mouth; Mrs Wilson has a circle around ‘I’.
—I’ll have you taken off meat, she says.
—Perhaps it was the turpentine enema, says Mrs Wilson, they didn’t grease me up properly and it burned. I’ve the most terrible runs. I’m going every few minutes.
—Well don’t go now, says Rosa a little tersely, not until I’ve replaced the bedpan.
—Would you mind furnishing me with a drink of water, says Mrs Wilson, once you’ve remedied the bedpan?
—Of course, says Rosa, anything else?
—No, no, that will be all.
The ceramic bedpan is not even half full. Rosa replaces the lid and remains kneeling on the floor for a moment, trying to muster the will to get up. The rattle and thud of the bombs and the guns can be heard spreading out across the city, and the wails of casualties echo from along the corridor, and here she is staring into a half-empty bedpan; somebody must be on the convalescent ward, of course, but why does it have to be her? Quite apart from the infuriating feeling of impotence, being stuck on a ward such as this leaves her with an unwelcome opportunity to think, and inevitably she thinks about Samuel. She has managed thus far to avoid him by getting reassigned mainly to the Crossman Ward, and this has suited her perfectly; not only is it located on the other side of the building, but as the resuscitation ward it also means a constant flow of action, enough to demand her full attention at all times, leaving her with not a single thought to herself. Daily she has checked with Betty Robinson: is he still there, has he not been transferred yet, well what are they waiting for? And daily Betty shakes her head and asks again about the nature of her relationship with Samuel. And daily Rosa refuses to discuss it.
—Will you be quick, dear, says Mrs Wilson, I’m afraid I shall want to go again.
—This bedpan is only half full, says Rosa, you’ve quite a way to go yet.
—It won’t be half full by the time I’m finished, says Mrs Wilson.
Suddenly there is a whistle followed by a loud bang, and the floor trembles, and the emergency lights go out, and Rosa loses her balance and falls to the floor; she can hear Mrs Wilson calling into the darkness; after several seconds the emergency lights come buzzing on again, and Rosa sees that the bedpan has smashed under the bed, spilling the contents in a puddle that stretches all the way to the wall.
—Nurse, moans Mrs Wilson, I am in the most desperate state.
Rosa gets to her feet, exhales and provides her with another bedpan from the next bed; then she kneels again on the floor and proceeds to clear up the mess using handfuls of swabs from the dressing-trolley.
After several minutes the floor is clean. Rosa gets to her feet, stretching her back; a wave of tiredness breaks over her, and she shakes it off in a way that has become familiar. A new sound has joined the stuttering cacophony of the air raid: a steady, dull thud that pulsates the heart in its cage.
—Jolly good, says Mrs Wilson, a mobile gun crew.
—Sounds like it, Rosa replies.
Her senses sharpen – a chance to get out of the tedium of the Currie Ward has presented itself. She looks round and sees a movement close by, she calls into the gloom, Sister? Is that you? Sister materialises from the shadows instantly, imposing and contained, her tin helmet pushed back slightly from her face, wiping her hands on her apron.
—You called, Miss Clark? she says.
—I beg your pardon, Sister, but it sounds as if a gun crew is nearby.
—They are out on the Whitechapel Road, says Sister in omniscient tones. Well?
—It must be awfully hard work, says Rosa, out there with the guns. Don’t you think they would like a cup of tea?
—I dare say they would, replies Sister drily.
—Matron said that we should offer the servicemen tea where appropriate. I would like to take them a tray of tea and cigarettes.
—Not one of your better ideas, Probationer Clark. The ward is never left, you know that.
—But I’m not doing anything here, Rosa replies boldly, apart from emptying bedpans and clearing up urine from the floor. The junior probationers can easily manage that.
—You should be thankful not to be in Crossman, replies the Sister a little snappishly. A high explosive came down in Middlesex Street, and the casualties are still com
ing in.
—Very well, send me back to Crossman, says Rosa, all I want is to be doing something worthwhile. I’m cooling my heels here.
—That’s quite enough, says Sister. She cocks her head in a wily manner, taking stock of the situation; this is irregular but the girl hasn’t done anything wrong, except for exhibiting a little wilfulness in the heat of the moment. Her voice softens.
—Very well then. But don’t dally, do you hear? You can take that bedpan to the sinkroom on your way.
—Yes, Sister, thank you, says Rosa, and disappears into the shadows. The last things to vanish are the white apron-straps crossed across her back.
Mrs Wilson raises her hand.
—Sister, I beg your pardon, she says.
Sister turns towards her.
—Yes, she says, do you need something?
—I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I’m not convinced that Probationer Clark should be risking her life for a cup of tea. My son Kenneth is an Air Raid Warden, you see, she adds, he’s six foot one.
—You don’t know Probationer Clark, Sister replies enigmatically, she has an uncanny thirst for this sort of thing. Now if you’ll excuse me.
—But she’s risking her neck, says Mrs Wilson.
—We all risk our necks these days, Mrs Wilson. Especially in the nursing profession.
Samuel’s head is hurting, but not as much as he thought it would, his arm is stinging but not to an unbearable degree, and his mind feels strangely clear. He stumbles along the corridors, clinging to the walls and the shadows, avoiding the nurses and medical men, hoping against hope for a glimpse of Rosa as the noise of the air raid clatters on and orange light flashes through the smeared windows. He skids and almost falls on a flight of soapy stairs left half scrubbed by the night cleaners, but manages to right himself. As he walks the corridors get busier, and the floor is covered with a greasy black film; he must be approaching the front of the building. A noise grows, a blend of shouts, cries, screams, firm orders and soothing words, clinks of bottles and slams of doors and the trundling sound of wheels upon linoleum, the noise of the Home Front, echoing against the smooth walls and floors of the hospital. Samuel nears the entrance hall and finds himself plunged into bedlam. Everywhere there are people on stretchers, nurses in tin helmets carrying bowls and bandages, intense-looking doctors with stethoscopes, policemen and wardens and soot-covered women clutching their bags and weeping.
The English German Girl Page 34
