by Pam Weaver
Twenty-Six
Central London, Thursday June 17th 1943
Once Frankie was back on duty, the days seemed to merge into one another. There were periods of time when she and the other girls were stretched to the limit and the ravages of war had been relentless, but there were also periods of time when Frankie had been able to relax a little. Sometimes she wondered how they all kept going, but they did. She remembered the strict instructions Mr Hill had given her when she was in hospital and always made sure she kept a full water bottle, especially when she had to ride long distances with dispatches.
It had been almost a year since her collapse when Frankie was told to report to St George’s hospital for a medical. Since her brief spell in hospital, the army wanted her to have yearly check-ups because they had given her a new experimental drug, something called penicillin, to combat the infection in her leg. St George’s was one of the few hospitals which had remained in the capital. Places such as Charing Cross hospital and St Bart’s had been relocated at the beginning of the war. She wasn’t quite sure why she had been asked to attend, and she wasn’t planning to go but Aunt Bet had persuaded her it would be no bad thing.
‘The rest of us poor plebs,’ she joked, ‘have to pay for every darned thing. You get it for free. Make the most of it, girl. At least if there’s something wrong with you they’ll pick it up early.’
Her battery commander arranged for Frankie to spend two nights in digs in London so she travelled by train to the hospital. They took blood, her blood pressure, temperature and weighed her, then she saw the specialist. After a thorough examination, he declared her fit and she was free to go. It was a godsend because she had the rest of that day, and all of the next, before she had to catch the train back to Kent, so Frankie decided to make the most of it.
First she did a little window shopping in Oxford Street and Regent Street. She had a few coupons and although she couldn’t afford anything, it was fun trying on dresses and hats at leisure. By five o’clock she was ready to catch the tube back to her digs. The train arrived and quite a lot of passengers got off but only a few got on. It was much less crowded now but Frankie had to stand. A man rose to his feet to offer her his seat. As she turned to thank him she blurted out ‘Oh!’ as she got the surprise of her life. It was Doctor Delaney, the American she had seen in the Deal and Walmer hospital.
He raised his hat and smiled. ‘Nice to see you again. I trust you are well?’
Her heart was already fluttering. Fancy him remembering her. ‘Yes, yes.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘Er, I’ve just been to Charing Cross for a check-up.’
He seemed puzzled. ‘Why would they send you to Charing Cross?’
Frankie shrugged and he laughed. The train jolted forward as she sat and he grabbed the strap above her head. As he swayed above her, Frankie could hardly breathe for the thought of him so close.
At the far end of the carriage she saw a man give a small boy aged about eight or nine a thick sandwich. The boy was obviously hungry because he could hardly get it down quick enough. She noticed the doctor’s eye was drawn to them as well. The man and the child exchanged a grin then the man tousled his hair. Frankie guessed he must be the boy’s father.
As the train rattled on, she saw the man move closer to another passenger. At first she thought it was just an accidental movement caused by a lurch of the train. But was it? Frankie was horrified to see the man slip the other passenger’s wallet into his jacket pocket. Heavens above! He was a professional pickpocket.
What should she do? Frankie shifted her bottom to the edge of the seat as if to get up but at the same time she glanced up at the doctor. He shook his head slowly. She did wonder briefly why he’d done that and it dawned on her that if she drew attention to the incident on such a crowded train and people got angry in such a confined space, it could be dangerous. There was bound to be a kerfuffle, maybe a fight.
The thief may have noticed them looking because he decided to move further down the carriage. Tugging at his son’s coat sleeve, he turned to leave but the boy began to choke. The man patted the boy’s back. ‘Choke up, chicken.’ The boy was retching but still the sandwich was stuck. The man patted his back a little harder.
By now other passengers were beginning to take notice.
‘Put him across my lap, Mister,’ a large woman said.
The child was dumped across her knees and she began to pat his back vigorously. ‘Johnny,’ his father cried desperately as the boy continued to choke. ‘Oh God, what can I do? Johnny, don’t die. Breathe.’
The people around him were starting to panic. The boy was deathly white and breaking into a cold sweat.
‘Hang ’im upside down,’ someone shouted.
‘Put yer finger in and get it out,’ said another.
‘Let me through,’ Doctor Delaney interrupted. ‘I’m a doctor.’
When he reached the boy, the child was already in a state of collapse. Frankie watched anxiously as he spun the lad around so that his back was against his stomach and grasping him firmly just above his waist, he jerked the boy hard. There was a retching sound but no more.
‘What the ’ell is that black man doing,’ the large lady cried. ‘Make ’im stop. ’e’ll hurt the little fellow.’
Before the boy’s father could intervene, the doctor repeated the procedure and this time a large lump of soggy bread flew out from the boy’s mouth and on to the carriage floor. The boy began to cry piteously. Frankie felt a wave of relief.
The atmosphere in the carriage completely changed. ‘Well done.’ ‘Thank Gawd for that. I thought ’e was a goner.’ ‘You were amazing, doc.’
The boy’s father was cradling his son. His eyes were filled with tears. He held out his hand towards the doctor. ‘Bert Harper,’ he said snatching off his cap and shaking the man’s hand. ‘I’m eternally indebted to you, sir.’
The doctor shook his head modestly.
‘May I know your name, sir?’
‘Delaney. Romare Delaney.’
Romare, thought Frankie, her admiration soaring. What a lovely name …
By now the boy was pink and breathing normally.
‘I can never thank you enough, sir,’ said Bert.
Romare looked directly into the man’s eyes. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be to get off a train to find that something so important to you is missing.’ And Frankie saw Bert’s face pale.
The train was slowing again as Romare made his way back to his case on the floor. Frankie had tucked it closer to her leg to keep an eye on it when he went to help. People shook his hand or patted him on the back. As he reached his case, he smiled at Frankie as they both heard the pickpocket say, ‘Excuse me, sir. I think you dropped your wallet.’
They looked back to see the bemused passenger thanking Bert profusely.
The train came to a halt and Frankie and the doctor stood to leave. Bert Harper and his son were just in front of them. The doors rumbled open and Romare stepped aside to let Frankie go first. As Romare stepped off the train, he and the boy’s father exchanged a knowing smile. ‘Thanks once again, Doc,’ said Bert, as he and his son hurried off.
She and the doctor went up the escalator and reached the ticket barrier at the same time. Once through, he suddenly turned to Frankie. ‘I know it’s probably not what you English people do,’ he began, ‘but can I offer you a drink?’
Frankie was surprised – pleasantly so – but at the same time she was struck dumb.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, raising his hat. ‘Please excuse me.’
‘No, no,’ cried Frankie. ‘I would love to have a drink.’
The station tea rooms was closing so he escorted her towards the pub across the street and they went into the lounge bar. Frankie asked for a sherry.
‘Mr Hill, the consultant, said you had brought some donated blood to this country,’ said Frankie, uncertain how to begin the conversation.
He put her sherry down on the table in front of her and nodded. ‘That was my privilege, yes, bu
t it wasn’t just blood. It was blood plasma.’
Frankie was confused. ‘So what’s that?’
‘Plasma is one of the components of blood. I’ve been working with a man called Doctor Drew. He’s heading up an exciting programme which is saving a lot of lives.’
‘But we already have donated blood here,’ said Frankie.
‘Doctor Drew has developed a way of separating plasma from blood cells,’ Delaney continued. He drank from his beer glass then put it onto the small table in between them. ‘Once separated, the plasma goes through a process to remove any contamination and it’s tested for bacteria, before it’s put into shipping containers.’
‘Sounds complicated,’ Frankie said.
Romare Delaney smiled. ‘Doctor Drew’s efforts mean that blood can be carried over long distances and still be safe to use.’
Frankie nodded, impressed. ‘I see.’
‘It also lasts a lot longer as well.’
They stopped talking to watch a pianist settle down at the piano and start to play. The landlord put a pint of brown ale on the upturned lid and the familiar notes of Artie Shaw’s ‘Stardust’ filled the smoky blue air.
As it finished, Frankie leaned forward. ‘So if there was a battle,’ she said, suddenly very interested, ‘your blood plasma should make it possible to save a lot more lives.’
‘Sure,’ said Doctor Delaney.
‘We’ve been hearing a lot about the “Blood for Britain” campaign,’ Frankie said tentatively.
‘That’s part of it,’ said the doctor. ‘We collected fifteen thousand units and I was given the opportunity to travel here by plane as a representative of the American Red Cross.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Frankie gasped.
The pianist was playing ‘You’ll never know’.
Delaney smiled. ‘And you? What have you been doing, Miss Sherwood?
‘I’m a dispatch rider,’ she said. ‘I’m in the ATS which is part of the British army; and the name is Frankie.’
‘Frankie,’ he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
‘Actually it’s Frances Sherwood, but everyone calls me Frankie.’
‘Then I’m delighted to meet you, Frankie Sherwood.’ His eyes lingered on hers, then he said, ‘I don’t get to see many dames doing your kind of job back home.’
I bet you don’t, she thought. The war had changed a lot of attitudes towards women and their capabilities. ‘Will you be over here for long?’
‘Just a few months. At the moment I’m in no hurry to go back,’ he confessed. ‘Despite the war, I like it here. You Britishers are pretty nice people.’
Frankie laughed. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She paused. ‘You haven’t had any problems about your colour then?’ The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. ‘I’m sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have said …’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘That’s fine and the answer is some, but not like it is back home.’
She looked away, embarrassed.
‘Back in the States the Red Cross still excludes coloured Americans from giving blood, so although Doctor Drew and I are pioneers we can’t donate our own blood.’
‘But surely there’s no difference,’ Frankie protested. ‘Blood is blood, isn’t it?’
Doctor Delaney shrugged. ‘They have the data.’
An angry heat swelled in Frankie’s veins. ‘So what happens if a coloured soldier needs this blood?’ she said crossly.
‘That’s our next battle,’ said Doctor Delaney with a concerned frown as they paused to applaud the piano player.
It was pleasant being in his company and when he offered to buy her a meal, Frankie didn’t refuse. The pub only served sandwiches so they went in search of somewhere else before finding a small café about a quarter of a mile away.
They were about halfway through their meal when the air raid sirens went off.
‘Sounds like the buggers have started again,’ said the waiter. ‘I thought we were done with all that.’
It was true. Since May 1941 the number of bombs dropped on the capital had diminished rapidly. There had been sporadic raids but London itself had enjoyed a period of calm. An ARP stuck his head through the open door. ‘Come on, ladies and gents; let’s be having you.’ And that meant everyone, including the café owner, had to go to the nearest air raid shelter. As he was hustled towards the door, the doctor stuffed a couple of notes in the proprietor’s hand. The man seemed surprised. ‘Thanks, mate.’
They could hear the first of the bombs falling as they hurried down the stairs of the shelter but Frankie wasn’t at all afraid, not with this lovely man beside her. She turned to give him a smile.
‘You know, I’m getting used to air raid shelters and the bombs,’ he said as they found a space to sit on the floor together. ‘It’s all very sad because I’ve even developed a taste for tea and warm beer.’
Frankie laughed.
Somewhere further down the platform, a lone harmonica was playing. Romare took off his coat to lay it on the tiled floor and when Frankie sat, he slid down beside her. Before long, the platform grew noisy as it filled up. People who had obviously done this many, many times before arrived with extra clothing, rolled mattresses, blankets and pillows. Families bagged places together and settled down with their flasks of tea and paper bags of sandwiches. A lady with a Red Cross badge on her coat offered them an army blanket to sit on and Romare took it gratefully. Where the wind whistled down from the tunnel it was cold. He put his coat back on and they sat on the blanket.
‘Hey, you,’ someone called out. ‘You look like that Paul Robeson fella. Can you sing one of them spirituals?’
‘Ooh, yes please, Mister,’ a plump middle-aged woman cried after him. ‘I love them songs.’
Romare shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m no concert singer, Ma’am,’ he apologised politely. ‘My only singing back home is done in church or maybe my bath tub.’
She chuckled. ‘But perhaps you might make an exception for us? It would help to sooth the kiddies to sleep.’
Romare shifted himself awkwardly. Frankie glared at the woman indignantly.
A modest man, Romare would have refused if it weren’t for the little boy huddled close to his parents nearby. More to soothe the child than anything else, he allowed himself to be persuaded and rose to his feet. A moment later, the sound of his beautiful bass baritone voice drifted through the chilly station. The people on the platform were spell-bound.
Oooh sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble …
Frankie relaxed and leaned against the wall. Closing her eyes, she drank in the moment. Were you there when he rose up from the tomb …
Romare glanced down at her and as his eye met hers; it was as if everyone else had faded away and he was singing only to her. As he finished his song, there was a round of enthusiastic applause.
‘Sing us another one,’ someone cried.
Romare gave them a slight bow. ‘Last one, okay?’
For a second he paused, trying to think of something suitable and then he remembered a song his mother sang when he was a child and tired from working in the fields, so to the delight of his audience but mostly for her, he sang.
Oh Shenandoah, I love your daughter
’way you rolling river,
for her I’d cross the foaming water …
’cross the wide Missouri …
As his song drew to a close, there were tears in Frankie’s eyes. The crowd applauded again and Romare lowered himself to the floor beside her.
‘You have an amazing voice,’ she said. ‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’
Romare smiled; his eyes had a far-away look. ‘In the cotton fields,’ he said. ‘We sang to move the day along.’
‘Sounds like hard work,’ she remarked. ‘How old were you?’
‘I worked in the fields from the age of eight,’ he said. ‘By the time I was nine I could pick a bag of cotton weighing a hundred pounds.’
Franki
e took in a breath. ‘So how did you move from the cotton fields to being a doctor?’ she asked incredulously.
‘I was lucky,’ he said simply. ‘My teacher, Thelma-Mae Thomson, gave me extra lessons and I won a scholarship.’
‘You are amazing,’ Frankie gasped.
‘My friends and family were the amazing ones,’ he said. ‘I took on extra jobs, but the folks at church raised funds and took up a collection and my family scrimped and saved. My daddy even sold his old truck to get me the railroad fare and when I was seventeen I went to Washington DC to get me an education.’
Further down the platform, the harmonica player had moved on to the more popular music and an impromptu sing-song began. They didn’t sing at the tops of their voices as in the concert halls but quietly, so that it sounded like a gentle hum. Everyone was aware that mothers were trying to get their children to sleep. Tunes such as ‘Roll out the Barrel’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and ‘Lili Marlene’ drifted through the cold air and despite the distant thuds as the bombs fell, Frankie felt her head sagging towards his shoulder. It was hard to keep her eyes open.
Twenty-Seven
Lewes Prison, Friday June 18th 1943
Sidney Knight felt awkward dressed in his own suit. It had been more than a year since he’d put it on and back then it had fitted quite well. Since he’d been in prison, he’d lost a lot of weight. The place was damp and he’d developed a bit of a cough.
‘Stand in line,’ the guard said gruffly.
Sidney shuffled towards the other prisoners waiting to be released. There were eight of them altogether. They’d been inside for different things – theft, wounding with intent, affray, fraud – and they’d all had different sentences – eighteen months, four years, two months, two years – but today they shared a common release date. Sid had completed a two-year sentence with a year off for good behaviour. It was a stiff sentence for just a few quid but the judge had taken a dim view of stealing from the less fortunate.
The small door of the prison was opened and everyone filed outside. The other ex-cons had people to meet them. Sidney was on his own but he didn’t mind. All he wanted was to get back home. He had to check nobody had been snooping around his place. Since he’d been inside he’d had had a couple of nightmares. In his dreams the girl had come to the house looking for her mother. In that strange way things work in dreams, he tried to tell her Moira wasn’t there but she kept running up the stairs. He was right behind her but he couldn’t catch her before she’d opened the attic door. Her terrified scream would wake him and he’d be in a cold sweat. Now that he was on the outside, he couldn’t wait to check everything was all right.
