Far From Home (18 page)

Peggy rested back on her heels and laughed. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger of losing your looks, Cissy, and a bit of hard work won’t kill you.’

Cissy continued scrubbing the hearth. ‘I work hard at the theatre,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not easy doing two shows a night after rehearsing all afternoon.’ She wiped the wet cloth over the black hearth and rinsed it out. ‘I’ll just finish this bit and then get us all a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘This is thirsty work.’

Peggy wondered if this was the right moment to question Cissy more closely. ‘Is everything all right, Cissy?’ she asked. ‘Only you don’t seem to be your sunny self these days.’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, dropping the cloth into the dirty water and wiping her sooty forehead with the back of her arm. ‘I’m just fed up with this war, that’s all.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ muttered Peggy. ‘It seems that no sooner do I get the place straight, than it’s filthy again.’ She wiped the damp cloth over the skirting board and sighed. ‘We’ll have to get the chimney sweep in. I don’t want to risk this happening again.’

‘I’ll get that tea.’ Cissy pulled off the rubber gloves and got to her feet. ‘Is there anything to eat? I’m starving.’

‘I saved some sandwiches and biscuits for you,’ said Peggy. ‘They’re in the larder under a plate.’ She watched Cissy leave the room. It wasn’t the war getting Cissy down, though God knew it was enough to try the patience of a saint – there was something else, something the girl didn’t want her to know about.

Peggy wrung out the cloth and resumed the cleaning, her mind working through all the possibilities, her imagination in danger of running riot. Cissy had always confided in her, had always discussed her plans and her dreams, had joyously related the funny incidents at the theatre and happily brought her friends home for tea. But suddenly that well of information had dried up; she’d stopped asking her friends to visit, and she’d become quieter and more introspective. In short, Peggy realised, Cissy had changed, and it had all started shortly after she and Jim had finally given in to her pleas and agreed to her joining the travelling troupe.

Resting back on her heels, she went over the interview she’d had with Jack Witherspoon. He’d been a very pleasant, fatherly sort of man and both she and Jim had agreed that Cissy would be all right with him. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.

She absent-mindedly ran the damp cloth over the skirting again, her thoughts whirling. She must not let her imagination run away with her. Cissy could very well be fed up and tired from the hectic schedule at the theatre – and Jack Witherspoon had promised to keep an eye on her, and let them know if there were any problems. She really must stop imagining the worst, she decided, and trust that Cissy would eventually tell her what was bothering her. She’d probably fallen out with some of the other girls. They could be a catty lot, and that peculiar man who was in charge of choreography sounded a complete tyrant.

Putting her worries firmly to one side, she eyed the ruined wallpaper. There was little point in trying to do much about it. There would be more raids like the one last night, and a lick of paint or new wallpaper would be a futile waste of time. The war had escalated since the daylight raids had begun back in August, and now with Russia and Italy allied with Germany and the Vichy French, it could only get worse.

‘Here we are,’ said Cissy. ‘I’ve done some more sandwiches, but we’re now out of bread and anything to put on it.’ She set the tray down and handed round the cups of tea and plate of sandwiches. ‘Do you want me to go to the shops?’

‘You could try,’ muttered Peggy as she sank on to one of the chairs, ‘but I suspect there won’t be much on the shelves at this time of day.’ She bit into the sandwich that had the merest hint of marge and a slither of tomato inside. ‘We’ve got corned beef hash tonight with plenty of vegetables from the garden, so we won’t starve.’

Cissy drank her tea and munched her way through three sandwiches in quick succession. ‘I’ll give it a go anyway,’ she said. ‘You never know, I could be lucky.’

Peggy and Mrs Finch sat in silence, the smell of soot still permeating the air, as Cissy fetched the ration books and left the house. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to feed everyone tomorrow,’ said Peggy after a while. ‘With Ron not going hunting so frequently, and the shops empty of almost everything, it’s getting harder and harder to make ends meet.’

‘What’s that, dear?’ Mrs Finch twiddled her hearing aid. ‘Cold meat? I didn’t think we had any.’

Peggy shook her head, too weary to explain.

The hospital canteen was busy and noisy, and it took Polly a while to find two seats together. She smiled at the other chattering nurses and introduced herself, then placed the plate of vegetable stew on the table and sat down.

She was very hungry, having missed breakfast, but the stew didn’t taste as good as it looked. There was no seasoning, the gravy was thin and watery, and the vegetables had definitely passed their prime. But it was hot and filled the gap, and she’d almost finished when she saw Danuta come into the room.

Catching her eye, she waved and, as Danuta collected her food, Polly finished her stew and pushed away her plate. ‘How did it go this morning?’ she asked as the other girl sat down beside her.

Danuta pulled a face. ‘It is hard work, but I manage.’ She gave a nod of acknowledgement to the other nurses at the table who were looking at her with open, but friendly curiosity.

‘This is my friend, Danuta from Poland,’ said Polly to them. ‘We share a billet.’

They smiled and murmured a welcome before making their apologies and returning to their wards.

Polly realised Danuta was just as hungry as she’d been, and she sipped her tea as the other girl wolfed down the stew. When she’d pushed her empty plate away and reached for the thick china mug of tea, Polly asked the question that had been plaguing her since that morning.

‘I have never seen someone rolled on to their side during a fit,’ she began. ‘We’re taught to keep them flat on their back, with their necks arched to keep the airways open.’

Danuta eyed her over the rim of the mug. ‘In Poland we follow the method advised long ago by one of your English doctors at the London Hospital. It has been discovered that by putting the patient in such a position saves many lives. You do not know this?’

Polly shook her head. ‘It’s not in any of our nursing manuals.’

‘Then it should be, I think,’ Danuta said solemnly. She sipped her tea. ‘I have been to Accident and Emergency,’ she continued. ‘The head injury and the broken wrist have been discharged. But the man with the fit is being kept in overnight for observation.’

Polly felt rather ashamed that she’d forgotten all about them. ‘I’ve been to see Adam,’ she said. ‘There’s no change in his condition and, due to his heavy medication, he’s unaware that I’m even here.’

Danuta’s expression softened as she put down her empty cup. ‘It must be very hard for you to be in the hospital but not able to be with him. What are the injuries that keep him here?’

Polly took a deep breath and told her about the series of operations he’d had. ‘He’s heavily sedated,’ she finished, ‘and no one will really know much until he wakes up. It’s all very worrying and …’

The sirens screamed out with deafening urgency.

As one, the staff rose from their tables and began to hurry in an orderly fashion to their posts as the shutters were slammed down over the canteen counter. Polly and Danuta swiftly joined the flow.

‘I’ll see you later,’ shouted Polly over the ear-splitting racket as she and Danuta prepared to go their separate ways. ‘What time does your shift finish? Maybe we could walk back together?’

‘I will finish in three hours. But I have something I must do before I return to Beach View.’ Danuta gave her a hesitant smile. ‘Sorry always to say no. But it is important I do this thing today.’

Polly didn’t get the chance to ask what was so important, and she let everyone swirl around her as she watched Danuta head for the steps to the basement. She was a strange girl and clearly preferred to keep things close to her chest – but at least Polly had managed to get a smile out of her.

She realised she was getting in everyone’s way, and quickly ran up the stairs to Women’s Surgical. There was quiet order as the ward sister orchestrated the evacuation. Nurses and porters quickly helped patients into wheelchairs, or steered the bedridden out of the ward and down the specially made ramps towards the vast shelter that had been built below the grounds at the rear of the hospital.

Polly took charge of a young woman who was recovering from an appendectomy and helped her into a wheelchair. The woman was frightened, and it took a while to calm her down. The corridors and staircases were jammed with walking wounded, beds, casualties and staff, and the noise they made almost drowned the awful wail of the siren.

Making sure the nervous young woman was as comfortable as possible and calm enough to be left, and ensuring she was positioned near the other women from her ward, Polly returned to Women’s Surgical.

It was deserted and she hesitated on the threshold, torn between the desire to see Adam and the knowledge she would be risking Matron’s wrath if she didn’t return immediately to the shelter.

The need to see Adam won and, as she entered Men’s Surgical, she found the same orderly evacuation being orchestrated by Sister Warner, who was plump and bustling and had kind brown eyes. ‘You must be Polly Brown,’ she said with a warm smile, ‘and you should be with your own patients in the shelter.’

‘I know, but I wanted to see Adam quickly, if that’s all right.’

Sister Warner looked at her watch. ‘You have two minutes.’

‘Thanks,’ she breathed, already heading for Adam’s bedside. ‘Hello, darling,’ she murmured to the still figure. ‘I’ve just come to say a quick hello before I go down into the shelter. Can you hear me, my love? Do you even know I’m here?’

Adam didn’t move, and his hands remained lifeless and pale against the white hospital blanket.

Polly watched the rise and fall of his chest and wondered if it was her imagination, or whether his breathing seemed a little easier today. His colour was certainly better, and his hands were warmer than before, and as she studied the drip, she realised the dosage of morphine had been lessened. She felt a spurt of hope and kissed his freshly shaved chin. ‘You’ll be fine, darling, and when you wake up, I’ll be here.’

‘You must go now.’ Sister Warner’s voice was soft but her tone brooked no argument.

‘Thanks for letting me see him,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll come back for a quick look at him after the raid – if that’s all right?’

‘Only if Matron’s not prowling. Perhaps it would be better to wait until visiting hour at six?’

Polly swallowed her disappointment and fled as the sound of approaching enemy planes rumbled overhead.

Peggy had stuffed a cardboard box up the chimney in the hope that it would stop any further fall of soot. She had emptied the filthy water into the butt Ron had put outside the back door so he could water his vegetables, and was about to light a cigarette and put her feet up for a few minutes when the siren went off.

‘Bugger,’ she muttered, dragging herself out of her chair and reaching for her gas mask. ‘Am I not to have any peace today?’ She crossed the kitchen and gently shook Mrs Finch from her doze. ‘The siren’s going. Come on, we have to go downstairs.’

‘I’d love some pears, dear, but how on earth did you get hold of any?’

Peggy shook her head and helped her to her feet. ‘Air raid,’ she yelled just as Mrs Finch managed to get her hearing aid switched on.

‘There’s no need to shout, dear,’ she said, grabbing her bag of knitting and her library book. ‘I can hear you perfectly well.’

Peggy closed her eyes momentarily and then helped her down the steps and into the shelter. It felt strange to be in here in the middle of the day, but it seemed the Luftwaffe was determined to disrupt everyone’s life and make things as difficult as possible.

She settled Mrs Finch in her deckchair, lit the lamp against the gloom, sank down on to the bench beside her and pulled out the packet of Park Drive from her apron pocket. Having lit her cigarette, she leant back against a pillow and tried to relax – but it wasn’t easy. Cissy was at the local shops and Jim and Ron were somewhere in the middle of the town. It had been a long, weary night, and now it seemed they were in for an even longer day.

Peggy smoked her cigarette as Mrs Finch read her library book. She could hear the planes overhead now and braced herself for the onslaught. The guns were booming out from the cliff-tops and the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of tracer fire could be heard piercing the deeper rumble of the bombers.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could have the radio down here in the shelter. She’d become used to listening to the music programmes and ‘Worker’s Playtime’ as she got on with her chores – and of course it provided news of everything that was happening outside Cliffehaven. It had become a ritual to sit and listen to the news every night, unless there was a raid on, and although it wasn’t cheering, it certainly made her feel she wasn’t alone, that she was a very minor part in what Churchill was calling ‘The Battle of Britain’.

The airfields and factories all over the south coast of England had been targeted back in August, and the number of daylight raids was increasing. Central London had become the prime target, of course, and the British air force had retaliated with a massive raid on Berlin. Germany’s answer had been to increase its efforts by targeting not only London, but Southampton, Bristol, Manchester and Liverpool. It seemed no part of this island was safe, and she just had to pray that her sons would survive to come home – and that there would still be a home to come back to.