Christmas for the District Nurses

by Annie Groves

  ‘Peggy, you shouldn’t have.’

  Peggy grinned. ‘I didn’t make them, in case you’re wondering. Pete’s mum got the wool from one of her WVS friends and knitted these the moment she heard the news.’

  ‘Well, you must thank her from me,’ said Kathleen, her eyes shining, in full knowledge that knitting was not one of Peggy’s strengths. ‘You can never have too many when they’re this age. Even when it’s warm weather, it’s a struggle to keep everything washed and clean.’

  Peggy looked around; the room was spotless, and as tidy as it could reasonably be expected to be, given that it contained a young baby and a very active toddler. ‘Do you want a hand with anything?’

  Kathleen laughed and sat on the settee, new to her at least, even though it was second-hand. ‘No, Flo was round earlier and insisted on doing everything. I’m barely allowed to lift a finger really. I told her, I’ve got to do something or I’ll never shift my baby weight.’

  ‘What baby weight?’ Peggy looked at her friend’s trim figure in her bright printed dirndl and matching blouse. ‘You’re scarcely different to how you were this time last year.’

  Kathleen shrugged. ‘Maybe. Can I get you anything? Would you like to eat with us? Brian’s had his tea but I was waiting for Billy to get home.’

  ‘No, no,’ Peggy said hastily, knowing that – even with extra rations for nursing mothers – there would not be much food to spare. ‘I’m on late lunch breaks this week.’ She sought to change the subject. ‘Now, don’t keep me in suspense. You must have chosen a name by now?’

  Kathleen rose to put the kettle on in the small back kitchen. ‘We have,’ she called though the interconnecting door. Peggy smiled to see her. Her friend’s old kitchen had been dark and grim, even though it was always scrubbed and polished, but here the sunlight came through the back door to the little yard, as well as piercing the small window above the big ceramic sink. ‘We liked what Mattie said when Alan was born – give him his own name first of all and then have a family name in the middle. So she’ll be Barbara for herself and then Frances for Billy’s mother.’

  ‘Barbara Frances Reilly.’ Peggy tried the name out aloud. ‘I like it. Goes well with Brian too.’

  Kathleen reached for cups from the row of hooks beneath the wall cupboard. ‘And Brian is now officially Brian Reilly,’ she said with a mixture of delight and relief. ‘We wanted to have that sorted out before he’s old enough to start writing his name. Billy’s so proud, you can’t imagine.’ She carefully measured tea leaves into the slightly chipped brown pot she had inherited from their landlady.

  ‘Oh, I can,’ said Peggy, turning so that she had a good view of the little boy demonstrating his building skills. Billy had always been extremely fond of Brian, far more than his biological father had ever been. ‘He’s good at that, isn’t he? Perhaps he’ll be an engineer like Joe.’

  Kathleen brought the tea through. ‘Sorry there aren’t any biscuits. Mattie made some but we finished them yesterday.’

  ‘I’m really not hungry,’ Peggy insisted, even though she was. They were never still for one moment at the factory, and used up plenty of energy, meaning they were usually ravenous by the end of the day. Gratefully she accepted her cup.

  ‘Would you like to hold her?’ Kathleen offered.

  Peggy hid her expression by taking a swift sip. ‘Oh, no, it would be a shame to wake her,’ she said. ‘Of course I’d love to but let her sleep – I’ll give her a cuddle next time I’m round.’ She couldn’t offend her friend outright, but she definitely did not want to hold the child. She had told very few people, even her closest friends, about the miscarriage she had suffered not long before the news of Dunkirk had reached them. Even though it had happened eighteen months ago, the memories of losing what would have been Pete’s child were still painful, and every sight of a newborn brought it all flooding back. She hoped Mattie had never noticed when Alan was tiny, and she would have to revive all the excuses she’d made at the time now that Kathleen also had a small baby.

  Quickly finishing her tea, she made her apologies for the visit being so brief and rushed back outside, into the side street not far from Butterfield Green. If she had stayed longer, she knew Kathleen would have pressed her to join them for their evening meal, shortages or no shortages, and Peggy couldn’t allow that. Also, she was thrilled to see her friend so happy, in her new house with its cheerful aspect and homely proportions, obviously content in her marriage and delighted with her children. Yet Peggy was devastated as well, as that was what she should be enjoying herself: in another life, with no war, Pete would be with her and their child would have lived.

  She had had to get out.

  Peggy arrived back home just as Mrs Cannon was preparing to go out. ‘Oh, Peggy love. I have to leave you on your own this evening. We just got word, there’s an unexploded bomb down towards Liverpool Street and we need to provide a mobile canteen for those brave UXB boys.’

  Peggy hung her old handbag over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Goodness, you mean you’ll be right there if it goes off? Please be careful!’ It struck her that she would be lost if anything were to happen to Pete’s mother. Annoying as she could sometimes be, she had shown no lack of bravery since joining the WVS.

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. I’m sure they’ll make sure we’re somewhere safe,’ said Mrs Cannon, fastening her light jacket with its cheerful ric-rac edging. ‘Now, did I pack my apron? I don’t want to get splashes of milk on my good frock.’ She turned around to check her own bag. ‘Yes, of course I did. What am I like, I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She tutted as Peggy smiled.

  ‘Nonsense, you’re the most organised person I know. Oh, Kathleen says thank you for the bootees. She loved them.’

  Mrs Cannon broke into a wide smile. ‘And did you see the new arrival?’

  ‘I did. She’s gorgeous, looks just like her dad.’ Peggy made a supreme effort to keep her tone light; if Mrs Cannon noticed it falter, she had the decency not to say. ‘Hair as black as ink.’

  ‘How lovely.’ Mrs Cannon had one hand on the front door and then she stopped. ‘Goodness gracious, I’ve gone and forgotten that other thing. Mrs Bellings from over the road brought a letter for you that went to her by mistake. It’s the new postman, he’s still getting used to who’s where. Did you know that nice Mr Chandler has signed up for the army?’

  ‘Really? I thought he was my dad’s age.’ Peggy gasped in surprise.

  ‘Maybe not quite, but he didn’t have to go. Still, he said he wanted to do his bit. Very good of him, but the new fellow is a bit slow at learning the ropes. He’s not exactly in the first flush of youth, shall we say. Ah yes, here we are. From that American gentleman unless I’m much mistaken.’ Mrs Cannon’s eyes gleamed. ‘Must be off, Peggy dear. There’s a cold pie in the larder.’ She hurried off, leaving Peggy in the shady hall, holding the letter.

  Peggy bit her lip as she felt a giggle rise inside her. She would have loved to have been a fly on the wall as Mrs Bellings handed over the letter. Perhaps she’d worn gloves so she wouldn’t have to sully herself by touching the same envelope as the soldier of whom she so deeply disapproved. Peggy’s spirits perked up as she went through to the kitchen, which faintly smelt of the pie that had been baked earlier. She reached into the cutlery drawer for a knife.

  Gently she slit open the envelope and put it carefully to one side; paper was becoming too short to waste. Then she savoured the moment before reading the letter itself.

  Damn that interfering neighbour. How long had she had this before handing it over? Then Peggy stopped that line of thought, deciding that the mean-spirited woman wouldn’t have wanted it in her house for any longer than was strictly necessary. The main thing was that James was in London for a brief period of leave. He was staying in the centre of town, at a Red Cross dormitory. Would she like to come to meet him, show him the best spots to go dancing?

  Would I ever, breathed Peggy. Even if I
haven’t got any new jewellery to brighten myself up, I don’t reckon he’ll care. She checked the date and worked it out on her fingers. She could go on Friday – in two days’ time. Suddenly the world didn’t seem so bad after all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friday night was often busy at the first-aid post in the church hall, even if there wasn’t a raid. Gladys busied herself tidying the bandages, which the previous shift had left in a mess, humming as she did so. People got careless on Fridays. Even though the working week was hardly over, what with all the extra shifts, and then everyone pulling together to fire-watch or perform other home-front duties, the idea still remained: welcome in the weekend with a trip to the pub or night out at the cinema with chips after.

  Then a fight might break out, or an accident happen, as well as the regular injuries from damaged buildings, ruined roads or pavements. You never knew who would walk through the door on a Friday, or in what state. That was why she liked to have all her equipment in order, the bandages rolled and arranged in order of size and shape. That could save precious seconds.

  ‘Aren’t you good, Gladys. You’re never still for a minute,’ said Mrs Freeman, who was the other nurse on duty. She had installed herself in an armchair in one corner of the draughty hall, and was drinking a cup of tea. She peered at Gladys over her glasses, which made her look rather like an owl.

  ‘I like things to be ready so we’re not caught out,’ said Gladys mildly. She quite liked Mrs Freeman, who was at least twice her age, and had once been a proper nurse in a hospital and so was very experienced. Of course, when she married she had had to give up working, and Gladys knew she had three children, all teenagers now. Yet Gladys wasn’t entirely sure that the older woman always said or did the right thing. She wasn’t very up-to-date with new methods, which Gladys followed assiduously in the Queen’s Nurses Magazine, and from listening intently to everyone in the Victory Walk home. It had also become apparent that Mrs Freeman was more than happy to sit down and supervise while Gladys ran around doing most of the work. Still, she wasn’t bad company, and didn’t go to pieces in a crisis.

  Gladys looked up as a woman rushed in, all of a fluster, pulling her coat closed with one hand as she swept her pale hair off her forehead. ‘Oh, nurse. I do hope you can help me.’

  Gladys immediately set aside the bandages. ‘Yes, what’s wrong? Please sit down, and take a deep breath. There, that’s better.’

  The woman perched uneasily on the edge of the old wooden chair, looking as if she might spring up again at any moment. ‘I need advice,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best.’

  Gladys nodded. ‘Are you injured?’ She couldn’t see any signs but it was as well to check.

  ‘Oh no. It’s not for me.’ The woman’s expression was confused, as if she hadn’t expected the question.

  ‘I see,’ said Gladys, although she didn’t, or not yet. ‘So, what is the trouble?’ She hoped the woman wasn’t making things up just to get attention. Sometimes that happened and Gladys was never sure how best to make the person go away.

  ‘It’s Ma.’ The woman clasped and reclasped her hands. ‘She went and got diabetes, you see. It’s ever so hard. I try to keep an eye on her but I got to work all funny hours now my kids went off to their other gran in the country. She don’t take her medicine right.’

  Gladys looked across to Mrs Freeman, who must surely know this condition better than she herself did, but her colleague was taking no notice of what was happening on the other side of the hall. She was studying an old copy of the Radio Times.

  Gladys exhaled slowly. This was something she knew a little about. She had read articles in the magazine and spoken to some of the other nurses. ‘That must be difficult,’ she said kindly. ‘Does she have to take insulin?’

  The woman smiled hesitantly. ‘Yes, that’s it. I never remember the word, but that’s what it’s called.’

  Gladys nodded. ‘And she’s under the care of a doctor?’

  The woman nodded, more confident now. ‘Yes, but her usual one went off to the army and she don’t like the new feller. Reckons he don’t know what he’s talking about.’

  Gladys frowned. ‘That’s not very likely, really. They have to train for years, you know.’ She knew how hard the local doctors worked, but supposed it must be hard if you didn’t want to take the medicine – it was easier to blame someone else.

  ‘Well, she won’t talk to him no more. Then she goes all funny, loses her balance and whatnot. I can’t make her see sense.’ The woman stopped and gave a small sniff, wiping her eye hurriedly with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t stay home and mind her, I just can’t. I got to do my job, we need the money as well as everything else.’

  Gladys nodded in sympathy. She knew exactly how that felt. Then inspiration struck. ‘Would she talk to a district nurse?’ she asked. ‘There’s one in particular who has treated a lot of diabetic patients. She might be able to help her and then that would put your mind at rest.’

  The woman brightened. ‘Do you think she would agree?’ she asked. ‘Ma doesn’t mind the nurses. She says they’re more sensible than the doctor.’

  Gladys smiled. ‘This one’s very sensible. You want to speak to Bridget, that’s Nurse O’Doyle, at the Victory Walk Nurses’ Home. Do you know where that is? Your doctor can refer you.’ She knew that Bridget had once had a deep fear of needles, which she’d managed to hide even from her best friend Ellen for years. Bridget had persuaded Gladys to help her practise, and Gladys had borrowed one of her youngest sister’s squashy rubber balls so that they could try injecting it. She herself wasn’t qualified to give injections, but she’d watched Bridget, and knew that the Irish nurse now sometimes helped out at Dr Patcham’s special diabetic clinic.

  The woman stood up again, far happier now that she’d got the worry off her chest. ‘Thank you, I’ll do that first thing Monday. I can watch her myself over the weekend, but knowing there’s someone to turn to, that’s such a help. Thank you,’ she repeated, as she stood and turned to go.

  Well, thought Gladys, watching her leave, if that’s the sort of thing we have to deal with this evening, then it’ll be a doddle.

  Just then, there came a loud crash. Mrs Freeman jumped up and dropped the Radio Times. ‘Good heavens, whatever is that?’

  The blackout curtain blocking the front door billowed and two figures fell into the hall. It was dimly lit at the far end, and Gladys had to squint to make out what looked like a middle-aged man, his face hidden by the brim of his battered trilby, and a young woman on the verge of collapse. She swayed and reached out one hand to the distempered wall.

  ‘Right,’ grunted the man, ‘they’ll see to yer,’ and he hurried out again before his companion could protest. The woman – surely scarcely more than a girl – slumped to the floor. Gladys rushed across, realising that Mrs Freeman wouldn’t be able to see much with the combination of low light and her thick glasses.

  ‘My God.’ Gladys looked at the woman before her with a sick feeling of dread in her stomach. That bright blue coat was familiar. So was the hair and the once-glamorous clutch bag, its beads now hanging loose. So were the groans emanating from the figure’s throat.

  ‘Evelyn, what on earth has happened to you?’ She crouched and caught the unmistakable whiff of sour alcohol. ‘Evelyn, are you drunk? Oh God. Here, let me help you up. Come, sit over here. Are you all right? Did you get hurt, or what?’

  Evelyn was a dead weight and floppy as a rag doll as she half-steered, half-dragged her over to the nursing station and deposited her on the wooden chair. Evelyn slumped forward and Gladys caught her before she fell onto the splintered floorboards. ‘Put your head down on my desk if it’ll help,’ she hissed, hoping against hope that Mrs Freeman hadn’t realised exactly what was going on. ‘Listen to me, Evelyn, don’t go to sleep. Are you hurt? This is a first-aid post, you know. It’s for people who have had accidents, not gone out and drunk too much.’

  Evelyn raised her head a little and
glared at her sister. ‘Why’re you here?’ she mumbled.

  Gladys was instantly relieved that at least her sister could speak and had recognised her, and then furious that she was in such a state. ‘Because I work here,’ she said with barely concealed anger. ‘I’m a Civil Reserve nurse, remember. You’ve ended up at my post. So what are you doing? Did you fall over or something? Can you feel anything?’

  Evelyn hiccupped and rubbed her eyes, smearing the boot polish that was a poor substitute for the hard-to-come-by mascara. ‘Ankle,’ she said after a pause. ‘Fell and hurt my ankle.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Gladys bent to look, noticing her sister was wearing high-heeled patent sandals that she hadn’t seen before. She herself could not have walked in them even when sober; no wonder Evelyn had lost her balance after goodness knows how many drinks.

  Sure enough, one ankle was swollen and tender to the touch. ‘Argh, what are you doing?’ Evelyn protested as her big sister carefully felt around the joint. ‘Put it down, put it down.’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ Gladys said brutally. ‘You came in here wanting help, well, that’s what I’m giving you. You’ve twisted your ankle, most likely sprained it. I’ll strap it up enough to get you home and then you’ll have to keep it raised up. We’ll soak a towel in cold water and wrap it round it. Did you hear me, Evelyn? Don’t drop off. You’ll need to rest it for days, if not longer, I should think.’

  That made the younger woman sit up, alert now. ‘No, no, I can’t do that,’ she said, eyes frantic.

  ‘You’ll have to.’ Gladys reached for the right bandage, just where she’d left it earlier in the evening. ‘Sit still now while I take your shoe off.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Evelyn wailed. ‘If I’m not there they’ll choose somebody else and that’ll be it, I’ll have missed my chance.’

  ‘I understand ankles,’ said Gladys firmly. ‘You aren’t going anywhere until yours is better.’

  Evelyn began to sob. ‘You don’t care, you’ve never cared, this is my big chance and you’re trying to stop me.’