Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Really, I’m the last person to help you!’ She would have walked, right then, if it hadn’t been for the dog’s head still in her lap. It seemed so sad and lonely that she hadn’t the heart to shove it away. After peering into its eyes again, she relented. ‘I give in. What’s the matter then?’

  ‘She’s sick,’ he said gently. ‘Terminally ill. Should I take her to the vet and . . . you know, or let her hang on to the end? It would be kinder to take her to the vet, but I don’t want to let her go. Everyone says it’s up to me, but I can’t sleep for the worry. It’s the most terrible decision.’

  ‘You’re serious? You mean this lovely old dog?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No, poor thing, that’s too awful.’

  He nodded again. ‘Her name’s Pat. Pat the dog, get it? I can’t decide, I can’t even sleep for fretting about it.’

  They remained silent for a while, then Shelly spoke. ‘You must spend a lot of time with her.’

  ‘In the week I do. I work from home building travel websites, so I’m always around.’ He glanced into her face, looking for approval, perhaps, caring what she thought. ‘But at the weekends, I’m a lifeguard at the sports centre. I hate to leave her, but I’ll lose my job if I don’t go in, and the websites don’t pay that well while I’m building a name for myself.’

  ‘That’s where I’ve seen you. At the baths. I used to go every Saturday afternoon, but I haven’t been since Christmas,’ she said, taking another glance at his face and decided he was even better looking close up.

  He frowned. ‘Then I must have seen you there.’ Again, he studied her face. ‘But I don’t recognise you.’

  ‘I wear a yellow swim cap and goggles.’

  ‘Ah, that’s you?’ He grinned. ‘You’re good, fast, strong, but you need to work on your turns.’

  ‘You’ve been watching me? That’s creepy.’

  ‘Not creepy at all. It’s my job to watch the swimmers. That’s what I’m paid for.’

  CHAPTER 8

  GERTIE

  Dover, 1916.

  THAT AFTERNOON, MOTHER AND I stood before Sissy’s grave. ‘Promise you’ll come back, Gertie. I don’t need a hero.’ She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re my only child now. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.’

  ‘Mother, it’s the safest ship on the water, ask Father. Nothing bad is going to happen. Stop worrying.’

  The last autumn leaves tumbled down around us in a sudden gust. I peered into the bare branches and wondered if Sissy was sending her blessings. ‘I won’t let you down,’ I whispered.

  ‘I know,’ Mother answered, dabbing her nose with a lace handkerchief.

  *

  Back home, I went straight to my room and pulled the Huntley & Palmers tin from the back of my writing desk. Inside, lay all Sissy’s letters from the munitions factory, and from the isle of Lemnos, before her sickness and death.

  I’d read them so often the corners were dog-eared. With the tin in my lap, I sat quietly, recalling how pleased she was that women were at last stepping up the ladder of equality. I unfolded the top letter and heard her sweet voice as I read.

  Dearest Gertie,

  How I miss you! I wish you were here in glorious Greece. There are beautiful beaches and beautiful men, and days of endless sunshine. You would love it. Life is very different here in the field hospital. All day yesterday and through the night we heard the boom of guns, and the night nurses say the windows in the surgical hut rattled. It was the loudest I have heard so far, and every time I hear them, the words of one of our patients come to my mind: ‘Some poor devils are going to keep you busy.’

  Soldiers from the front say there’ll be a big push in a few days. God knows how we’ll cope. We have fifty beds in our hut. We ease their pain, then send them to tent wards.

  After work, at midnight last night, I went down to the receiving tent to see how the incoming wounded were handled. The big marquee had two feeble electric lights. Some doctors had electric torches. We’re told when a convoy is on its way. The stretchers are laid on the dirt floor, close together. The injured have a ticket on their coat assigning them to a tent where men with similar conditions also wait: shrapnel wounds, gas, blindness, limbs missing, gunshot and trench foot. I think about Arthur often, Gertie. Sometimes, a soldier will come in covered in mud . . . and for a moment I am fooled. Hope that there has been a mistake rises rapidly and leaves me breathless. Then my heart is broken all over again. At those times it’s difficult not to show affection for the poor blighters. They are all some mother’s son, aren’t they?

  Volunteers hand out hot soup, usually pea with horsemeat. Unless they’re in agony, we bathe the men, put their clothes in the fumigator, then let them sleep. The doctors talk to them a little, but they don’t examine them. For those desperate darlings who will not make it through the night, there is morphine. A high dose.

  The soldiers say very little. They’re exhausted, traumatised, and in terrible pain, but they’re also brave beyond measure. When I ask how they feel, torn open or limbs missing, they answer wearily, ‘Not too bad, nurse’ or ‘A bit rough, to tell the truth.’

  I love them all, Gertie, although there are terrible repercussions if any nurse is found fraternising with a patient. However, I do occasionally sneak a small square of Mother’s chocolate in for a terminal case or two. God help the poor devils.

  One patient was caught in an explosion and thrown onto an entanglement of barbed wire between us and the enemy. He had to stay there, exposed to gunfire, hunger, and thirst for twenty-four hours before anyone could get him away. He caught some shrapnel and several bullets, but I believe he will recover.

  Another was shot in the hip and could only drag himself a few inches at a time between the trenches. He was out there, bombs and bullets passing over him, for three days. He took water from the canteens of dead soldiers until he was eventually rescued.

  There was something about him, Gertie, something terribly special; my heart went right out to him. Thomas, was his name. Oh, my goodness. What a brave soldier! The light from his eyes shone right into my heart. When I cleaned the mud from his face, I gave him a fleeting kiss on the lips. This was such a forbidden gesture that I could have been expelled right there and then. Thankfully nobody noticed. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight, nurse?’ he asked. How I wished I could know him outside of this hellish war. I wanted to bathe him, tend his wounds and ease his pain. When I came back on duty, I brought him a square of treasured chocolate, but he had gone. Gone to heaven, Gertie. I wanted to be with him, in every sense of the word, so much that my heart broke into a million pieces. All I am left with is his name, Thomas . . . my Thomas.

  I lie on my cot at night and hear the marching feet of new soldiers heading for battle. I wonder how many will come back incomplete – with limbs left in the mud on the front line – and how many of those marching feet will end their journey toes up on some foreign battlefield, never to return.

  In the back of my mind, I can hear all the weeping mothers. You can’t get away from the tragedy of it all. It is with you every waking minute, and in your ears as you sleep. The boots go on marching, marching, marching. Never so many, and never so firmly, when they return.

  Enough of this misery. I am honoured to be here, helping our wounded. At least I had a choice and can leave whenever I wish. Not so for our poor men.

  One of the greatest things about being here is meeting so many kinds of people. The Australian sisters are here, and the New Zealand nurses too. Without them, heaven knows what we would do. We all suffer the same discomforts and eat the same food. It’s not too bad, and keeps us going, but we have lost much weight.

  I’ve reached the end of my news, dear Gertie, but I will write again the moment I get a chance.

  Love and kisses from me, your dear sister,

  Sissy

  My darling Sissy was my inspiration. I may never be as bold, brave, or intelligent as my sister, but I would try my best, and
all would be done in her name. On 12 November, I stood on Southampton’s dock, antlike in the shadow of HMHS Britannic, my skin tingling with excitement. Sissy’s inspiration and my St John Ambulance certificate had carried me this far, the rest was up to me.

  I squinted up at the majestic white ship. A broad green stripe ran around the hull, amidships, broken in three places by the universally recognised red cross. Low winter sunlight caught the great sign causing it to glint and flash, and confirming in our minds that nothing bad could ever happen to such a magnificent vessel. Breathless with excitement, and proud to be seen in public wearing my new uniform, I smiled at everyone who glanced my way.

  ‘Smith, wipe that grin off your face, you’re not a showgirl!’ Matron ordered as she rounded us up on the quayside.

  ‘Yes, Matron, sorry, Matron.’ I removed the smile, but it was impossible to dampen the sparkle in my eyes. We VADs and new nurses were ordered aboard. My heart thumped with pride. Most of us rushed to the rail and peered down at those on the wharf below. We were so high, they looked small, but how desperately I wanted to see my parents . . . wanted them to see me. I searched and searched, gripping the rail and leaning over as far as I dared, hoping to stand out in the sea of uniforms. Then, I caught sight of my father’s face, upturned, luminous with worry and stern as ever. Mother stood beside him, dabbing her eyes with one of his large white handkerchiefs. She held it in the air, fluttering it as if flinging her tears my way. I jumped up and down, arms thrust above my head, they had to see me! A voice came from behind.

  ‘Miss Smith, decorum, please!’

  I turned. ‘Sorry, Matron. I got carried away.’ Clearly, I was destined to be scolded by Matron on a regular basis.

  ‘Do remember, we represent our king and country, so we will not behave like children at a Punch and Judy show.’

  ‘Yes, Matron. It won’t happen again.’ But I could not contain my grin. ‘It’s my parents, they came to see me off! There, Matron, down on the portside.’ I pointed.

  She raised her eyebrows and stretched her neck. ‘And ladies don’t point unless it’s an emergency. What is the world coming to?’

  I dropped my arm. ‘No, of course they don’t. Sorry, Matron, I am too excited.’

  Matron peered down her nose and shook her head in a despairing manner, but as she turned away, I caught the glimmer of a smile.

  Down on the dock, people gathered in likeminded clusters. Some younger people cheered rowdily, whistling, and waving little flags or handkerchiefs up towards us. Other assemblies were subdued, saddened, clutching each other, gloved hands flapping awkwardly towards the ship.

  The point of no return came at two fifteen in the afternoon. My heart thumped as the stevedores lifted rope loops off the mooring stanchions, severing the umbilical to my motherland.

  I was on my own now. An adult at the start of a new life. Out of the nest, I was about to test my wings. Could I fly without my father there to catch me? With Sissy’s spirit behind me, I would help to save the life of some other mother’s son, and make my family proud.

  With the lines slipped, the great vessel eased away. The clang of the ships bell added to an atmosphere of celebration. Shrill farewells rose on the air, then they were drowned by an uproarious rendition of ‘Rule, Britannia!’, played by a local brass band. My ebullience at embarking on this great adventure swiftly morphed into a feeling of loss and loneliness. My country, and my dearest friends and family, slipped away from me.

  Low sunlight hit the promenade, stretching shadows into thin grey ghosts on the pale cement. They grew smaller and more distant by the second. People moved away, heading for the public house, or home. My eyes fixed on my parents, still as statues, and I understood every bit of their sense of loss. At that moment, it matched my own.

  *

  The purser – a short, dapper man – told us of the incredible power of HMHS Britannic’s engines. He caught my eye, and I sensed he was trying to impress me, which made me blush.

  ‘The Britannic’s stronger and far safer than her sister ship, Titanic.’ The purser presented facts and figures that meant nothing to me before he handed us over to Matron. I tried to memorise the things he told us, thinking I could put them into my first letter home and impress Father.

  I imagined him looking up from the page. ‘You see how much she has learned already, my dear. Our girl has a good head on her shoulders.’ And Mother would be amazed.

  Matron Merriberry, a powerful woman who carried the weight of middle age with dignity, led us around the vessel.

  ‘Pay attention, ladies,’ she boomed, glaring at each of us, then her face softening. ‘We’re honoured to be given this vessel for our work. The Britannic would have been the most luxurious passenger ship of the White Star Line, and indeed of the world. However, for the moment her more ornate fittings, and her magnificent pipe organ, lay in storage. That space is taken by operating rooms, surgeries, and wards with over three thousand beds.’ She threw her shoulders back, then continued. ‘Before you descend to your designated cabins, follow me around the ship and familiarise yourselves.’

  We walked behind her, all eyes on her rotund derrière for a moment. Clearly, Matron was not fond of a tight corset. She swung her wide hips with the vigour that made me proud to be a woman. Mother would be shocked, but then Mother didn’t think we should be fighting for the vote, or saying one single word against sending our brothers to be blown to pieces in the war, or objecting to us women getting half the pay of men for the same job.

  We followed Matron into the first-class dining room, now converted into an intensive care ward. Here, the seriously wounded would stay. We presented our papers to the chief medical officer, along with our blood group card. I was O, the most common and the most needed. The transfusion procedure was a new and marvellous thing that saved many lives. The technique consisted of two glass tubes, one inserted into the donor, the other into the recipient, with a length of rubber hose between. The very idea of having to do this horrified me, and I was relieved when Matron assured us it was only on a voluntary basis.

  The first-class staterooms accommodated the hospital elite: doctors, medical corps officers, the chaplain, and Matron herself, of course. We VADs, nurses and orderlies resided in third-class cabins at the front of F deck. My cabinmate, Nurse Josephine, and our neighbours – trainee nurses, Barbara, Joan and Patricia – were great fun. Together, the five of us settled in, sure we would become friends for life. F deck was a fine place to be, until they raised or lowered the anchor. Then, the ribs and girders of the Britannic transferred that peculiar cacophony through our accommodation.

  A magnificent din also struck up when the stokers’ shift changed. The spiral staircase leading down to the firemen’s tunnel was right behind our cabin. The coalmen, in hobnailed boots, clomped up a racket at the change of each shift. Up and down the metal steps they clattered with no regard for the tremendous noise that rang in our ears.

  When the stomping stopped, and I broke the silence with a sigh of relief, the monstrous watertight fire doors below us trundled to a close with a final thud that shook third class. As we worked twelve-hour shifts, we only suffered the stokers’ racket once every twenty-four hours. Just to have a bed would be bliss, and sharing a bathroom hardly mattered.

  Dinner was almost formal, and held in the grand dining room. Four hundred medical staff dined together. As we ate, I imagined how marvellous it would be to travel as a passenger on the ship. I felt homesick from time to time, and dreamed of Mother’s delicious toad in the hole.

  I discovered a great advantage to being on F deck. Just down the corridor was the glorious white-tiled swimming bath! With teak ladders at each end, entering the water was far easier than going into the sea at home. A row of changing rooms on the port side of the poolroom reminded me of beach huts in St Margaret’s Bay, at home. The starboard side was lined with patterned marble, and luxuriously lit by gold sconces. I couldn’t wait to swim in such sumptuous surroundings.

  I
had just unpacked when the steward delivered a parcel addressed in my mother’s hand. What luxuries I discovered! A tin of Dundee cake, four tablets of coal tar soap, a precious slab of chocolate, and a carefully wrapped book. I imagined Mother thinking of me while she packed everything. She probably shed a tear for Sissy, too. Dear Mother. How I would miss her. I wanted to hug her right then.

  The book was filled with pictures of women workers in factories, bronzing and soldering and making high-explosive shells, amongst other things. I could imagine Mother being shocked by what she saw. The author, Minister of Munitions, Mr Lloyd George, claimed: ‘there were never such useful or dedicated workers as the women of the munitions’ factories.’

  My heart swelled knowing darling Sissy had worked in a place like this. Row upon row of missiles, thousands of them. Women, it was true, had their heads wrapped like puddings in a muslin cloth. I could never have imagined the scene just from Sissy’s letters.

  I turned another page and gasped with shock. There she was! My darling sister, an angel in heaven for almost a year and so badly missed, yet she stared up from the page smiling right into my eyes as if she knew this very moment would happen.

  I was crying without realising and ignored a knock on the cabin door. I just wanted to absorb the brightness of my precious sister’s smile.

  CHAPTER 9

  SHELLY

  Dover, present day.

  IN THE SPARE ROOM OF WHITE COTTAGE, Shelly kept her eyes closed and allowed memories of the first time she had met David and his dog to fill her mind.

  *

  ‘I haven’t been watching you at all,’ he said with a slightly hurt tone and a faint blush. ‘I’m a lifeguard, it’s my job to watch the swimmers and you’re good, you stand out. Why don’t you join the swimmers’ club? They coach people with potential. Anyway, that’s your choice. Tell me, what should I do about my dog?’

  ‘How long have you had her?’