The District Nurse
Yet Kathleen had been more distant since that day. It was as if she felt guilty at sharing the relief, the knowledge that Ray could never hurt her or little Brian ever again. So Billy was biding his time, not wanting to rush things, to ask for too much too soon. One thing was certain though; he didn’t intend to be pipped to the post again. Kathleen was the only woman for him, and if he had to wait until she realised that they were destined to be together, then so be it.
Peggy sighed as she dutifully fastened the blackout blinds in her mother-in-law’s kitchen. This was not how she had imagined her life turning out. She had moved in after she and Pete had got married in the autumn, with the plan that they would have their own house as soon as the war was over. Pete had been happy at the thought of his wife and his mother keeping one another company while he fought for his country. He hadn’t hesitated to enlist in the army when war broke out, even though their long-awaited wedding had been only weeks away. Everything had been going so well; they still managed to marry, and he’d had a wonderful period of leave at Christmas. She’d realised she was pregnant and they’d been thrilled. But then she had miscarried, and before that really sank in, Pete had been killed at Dunkirk.
‘Are you finished in there, Peggy love?’
‘Nearly,’ Peggy called back, from between gritted teeth. She hadn’t minded Mrs Cannon at first. They’d always got along well, and the older woman had welcomed her into her home, pleased that Pete was so happy in his choice of bride. Everyone could see how well suited they were; they’d been together since meeting at school, although they’d only become serious once Peggy had started working at the gas-mask factory.
Now, though, every tiny request or comment drove Peggy to the point of screaming. Nothing she did was ever quite right. The forks weren’t the right way round in the cutlery drawer. She hadn’t used enough Reckitt’s Blue in the washing. She didn’t know the best way to darn the frayed elbow of a jumper. None of these complaints on its own was enough to spark a row, but added together they were stifling.
It wasn’t that Peggy had to do all the housework. She knew she was lucky; plenty of young women her age were expected to do the lion’s share of the cleaning and cooking as well as working full time. Mrs Cannon was not like that and had been heard to boast that Peggy was a good girl, putting in all those hours at the factory and then helping out around the house. Peggy groaned inwardly. It was just that when she did help, it always provoked gentle criticism.
‘Come and listen to the wireless,’ called Mrs Cannon from the front room. ‘That Wilfrid Hyde-White is going to be on – he’s ever so good.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ Peggy replied, wanting to hit her head against the wall. Another evening beckoned of sitting either side of the fireplace with the wireless in pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece, knitting or sewing on buttons while the Home Service played at full volume. Peggy preferred the music programmes, especially if Ella Fitzgerald came on, but her mother-in-law didn’t like those kinds of singers. Peggy had often wondered if she could get away with simply turning the sound down a few notches. Mrs Cannon was a little deaf but would not admit it.
Running out of excuses to stay in the kitchen, she painted on a smile as she went through to where her mother-in-law was already sitting in her armchair, knitting at the ready.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Mrs Cannon, her eyes twinkling in appreciation. ‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you around, I really don’t. I find it so hard to reach the tops of the windows now, what with my lumbago, and arthritis in my fingers. You’re so nimble, you’re lucky.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Peggy, keeping the smile in place though her cheeks ached. She took the other armchair, the slightly less comfy one, and reached for her sewing bag. She brought out a skirt on which she had optimistically let out the waist when she’d been pregnant; she might as well take it in again. Her fingers trembled slightly at the memory as she threaded her needle.
‘Oh, what good eyesight you have,’ Mrs Cannon said warmly. ‘I remember when I used to be able to do that without my glasses. Not any more. Those days are long gone.’
Peggy nodded. ‘What are you knitting?’ she asked, for something to say, although she already knew the answer. It was the same cardigan her mother-in-law had been working on all week.
‘Just a little something to keep me warm when autumn comes,’ she answered, the same as she always did. ‘I can do one for you if you like.’
Peggy tried not to shudder. The colour, a dull brown, was not at all to her taste. ‘No, you save the wool for yourself,’ she said hastily, knowing that if she were to wear such a shade it would drain every ounce of colour from her face.
So Mrs Cannon thought she was lucky, did she? Peggy could not imagine feeling much worse. Stuck in here, with the sound of those blasted needles clacking away, knowing that any minute now there would be a well-meant but undermining comment about her sewing technique. How was that lucky? No baby, no Pete. How she had loved him, with his athletic frame and dark eyes that sent her weak at the knees every time he looked at her. How she missed holding him, being held by him. She’d never feel like that again. No man could ever come close to Pete, and that heady rush of first love that grew stronger by the year until they’d realised that they were meant for each other. All that had gone, vanished in the waters off Dunkirk.
The only way in which she counted herself lucky was that she was certain how he had died. One of his comrades had seen it happen: one quick, fatal bullet. He wouldn’t have suffered. He had been serving his country, which was what he had wanted to do. He was no coward, had never flinched from physical confrontation. If there was a wrong to be righted, Pete had been the man. For a minute Peggy thought of Edith; nobody was able to reassure her of Harry’s fate. His body hadn’t been found. He had failed to return to his unit, and wasn’t on any of the wounded lists, and so they had to assume he’d drowned and not resurfaced. How unbearable for them all.
Peggy had liked Edith on the occasions when they’d all gone out together. She always seemed keen to enjoy herself, to have a bit of fun, to let her hair down after a hard day’s work, and had fitted in easily to their group of old school friends. A thought occurred to her and she accidentally jabbed the needle into her finger.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ Mrs Cannon asked at once. ‘Haven’t made yourself bleed, have you?’
‘No, no,’ Peggy said, swiftly hiding the telltale dot of blood. She pretended to search for her scissors while the idea grew. She really could not stand the thought of every evening turning out like this, cooped up in the little front room full of trinkets, every one bearing some kind of memory of Pete, with just his old mother for company. Perhaps Edith would like an evening out. They could go to the Duke’s Arms and nobody would mind two women out on their own as they were well known there. Harry and Pete had been regulars, and were well liked. They could sit in the beer garden at the back and watch the world go by. Anything was better than this. Peggy gave a genuine smile and Mrs Cannon smiled back.
Peggy decided she would send a message to the nurses’ home the very next morning.
CHAPTER THREE
Edith sped along Dalston Lane on her bike, the breeze catching at her dark hair escaping from her starched cap. She was heading for one of the smaller side streets but had been there often enough not to have to check her bearings. That was often the way with a patient who required nursing twice a day. What with Dennis and this patient, she had a busy round even without any new cases.
She was on her way to see a three-year-old boy who not only had measles but had developed the complication of pneumonia as well. He was a very sick child, and Edith’s heart ached for him and his mother. She had not yet met the father, who was out working all hours at one of the local factories which had changed from producing pencils to munitions. He must have been earning a decent wage as the house was in a reasonable condition compared to many she visited, and yet it was barely big enough for the family, which numbered five children altogether.
Edith knocked smartly at the door, which must have been painted fairly recently, as it was nowhere near as chipped as its neighbours. Mrs Bell opened up at once, and ushered Edith inside. ‘I’m terribly glad to see you, nurse. Vinny’s been all hot and he can’t sleep, poor little mite.’ She turned to another child right behind her. ‘Out you go, Freda, you know you’re to keep out of nurse’s way and not go near any of her things. We don’t want you down with it as well. One’s enough, one’s more than enough.’ The woman sounded at the end of her tether.
Freda, who looked about six, regarded Edith with big, curious eyes. ‘Is me brother goin’ ter die, miss?’ she asked.
Edith crouched down to the girl’s level and met her gaze. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’re going to look after him and see that he has the best possible chance of getting better. So you can do your bit by making sure you’re quiet when you go past his door and letting him rest.’
‘All right, miss.’ The little girl seemed reassured. ‘He’s got my bedroom, though. I want it back.’
‘Freda!’ cried the mother. ‘You know it’s because it’s the smallest room, and Vinny can’t share with the boys if he’s so sick. You’ll just have to put up with it. He needs it more than you do.’
Edith smiled, feeling sorry for the little girl. It wasn’t her fault that she had been turfed out of her room. ‘When he’s properly better you can go back to how it was before,’ she assured her. The girl nodded solemnly and ran into the kitchen.
‘Nurse, I’m so sorry,’ gasped the mother, stricken. ‘You’ll think we brung them up with no manners.’
Edith began to climb the stairs towards the back bedroom on the topmost floor. ‘Not a bit, Mrs Bell. Sometimes we forget how the other children are affected if one of the family is sick. They can be frightened and don’t know what to do to make it better. Sometimes they think it’s their fault.’ She paused. ‘All you can do is keep telling them everyone’s doing their best and they aren’t to blame one way or the other.’
‘You’re very kind, nurse,’ Mrs Bell replied, sounding unconvinced. She and Edith paused on the top landing outside the bedroom door. As quietly as she could, Edith took off her coat, nurse’s cap and apron and hung them over the banister. From her bag she took out an overall and handkerchief to wear over her hair, along with everything she would need to treat the little boy. They had to minimise all risk of contamination, even though it meant carrying around extra items and added to the length of the visit.
Mrs Bell had queried why this was necessary to start with, but Edith promised her it was set down in the strict guidelines for such a case. She also required a bowl of disinfectant and a nailbrush to be left outside the bedroom door so that she, Mrs Bell or the doctor when he came could ensure their hands were clean going in and going out. Mrs Bell had protested. ‘Where can I put that without the other kids knocking it over? This ain’t a hospital where you can see what’s going on. The older boys sleep in that room opposite, and they’ll stick their noses into everything.’
Edith had looked around and noticed a small bookshelf at her head height; she was on the short side. ‘That might do,’ she said.
Mrs Bell had tutted. ‘We ain’t got many books and, those we have, the little darlings scribble all over, so we put our good ones up there. I’ll have to put them in me and Terry’s room, otherwise they’ll draw animals all over the pages.’ She removed the precious copies of Pears’ Cyclopaedia, the Bible and the Children’s Everything Within.
Now Edith carefully reached for the bowl, standing on tiptoe, making sure not to dislodge the envelope she had to leave for the doctor containing the patient’s report and chart. Grimly she thought that the people who devised the guidelines might have meant well but they hadn’t reckoned on big families living in confined spaces. And this was one of the luckier households.
Finally they were ready to go into the little bedroom. It was warm inside, but Mrs Bell had left the window open as instructed, so that what passed for fresh air around Dalston could freely circulate. On the narrow bed under a threadbare candlewick bedspread lay a little boy, propped on pillows and scarcely making a sound. Edith gently crouched beside him. ‘How are you feeling, Vinny?’ she asked.
‘Hot,’ he whispered.
Edith turned to Mrs Bell, lingering in the doorway. ‘Could you fetch him a glass of cold water?’ she asked, reaching for the tray set on the battered dressing table. All the crockery and cutlery that Vinny used had to be kept separate, so as not to infect the rest of the family, although that presented another hurdle for his mother.
Glad to be of use, Mrs Bell set off back downstairs, and Edith could properly assess her patient without causing his anxious parent even more worry. As she would with every case, she took his temperature, pulse and respiration, and noted them for comparison later. ‘Oh, you are a spotty boy,’ she said softly. ‘How am I going to recognise you when you’re better, eh? You’ll look so different.’ The little boy tried to smile but he was clearly too exhausted.
Edith shut the window and then set about sponging him down, noting that his spots were actually fading slightly. Perhaps he was turning the corner. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked encouragingly. ‘Maybe Mummy can bring you some beef tea.’ But he shook his head.
She went on to check his eyes and ears in case of any extra complications. ‘And have you had a pain in your tummy?’ she wondered, knowing that any disturbances of that kind could indicate still further problems. Wearily he shook his head once more, and turned his face into the pillow.
Edith swiftly finished her work and was just opening the window again when Mrs Bell returned, glass in hand. She had put on the flannel overall that Edith had lent her so that her own housecoat wouldn’t spread infection throughout the rest of the home. ‘See if you can get him to drink it,’ Edith urged. ‘He might still be off his food but he’s got to keep up his fluid intake. That’s more important than getting him to eat anything. Maybe some thin soup, when his appetite returns.’
Mrs Bell sat on the bed and looked at her boy with exhausted, concerned affection. ‘He’s a good little chap usually. Loves his pie and mash.’
Edith smiled. ‘It might be a while before he manages any pie. Mash would be good though, with beef gravy if there’s any going. But whatever you do, don’t let anyone else eat his leftovers or they might still catch this and we don’t want that.’
Mrs Bell’s shoulders slumped. ‘That’s easier said than done. We can’t afford to waste food. There’s too many mouths to feed and that’s a fact.’
Edith nodded in acknowledgement. The guidelines insisted that a patient’s leftover meals should be burnt or flushed down the lavatory, which was fine if you had a bathroom upstairs, but far from easy if not. Again the rules were hard to apply in circumstances such as these. ‘Just do your best,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You’ve managed very well so far. Having a mother who is prepared to go to all these lengths makes a great difference – you’d be surprised. I know all these rules seem silly, but they work. I do believe he might be on the mend.’
Mrs Bell’s expression changed to one of hope. ‘Really? Do you think so?’
Edith bit her lip, wondering if she had said too much too soon. After all, it was only an impression she’d formed and she wasn’t the doctor. However, she had seen such cases before and knew what to look for. ‘It’s early days,’ she cautioned, ‘but I’d say his spots have gone past the worst. Also his temperature is down a notch even though he feels hot. So keep on doing what you’re doing, and we’ll see how he goes on.’
Mrs Bell hurriedly wiped one eye. ‘Thank you, nurse,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
‘There’s a message for you,’ Mary greeted her on her return.
For a moment Edith’s heart flew to her mouth and her pulse quickened, but then she damped down the feeling. The one person she most wanted to hear from would never write to her again.
‘Looks as if it’s from Peggy,’ Mary went on, oblivious to what Edith was thinking. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages, have you?’
‘No,’ Edith replied, taking the envelope and sticking it in her skirt pocket while she set down her bag. ‘Blimey, my arm’s aching from carrying all that extra stuff. So many infectious cases at the moment – or is it just me?’
Mary shrugged. ‘I had two confirmed of measles today, and one suspected case. I shall have to notify the school. What a palaver. Fancy some tea?’ she added, heading for the stairs to the common room.
‘I’ll see you down there,’ said Edith, knowing she would have to sort out her bag first.
When she eventually joined her friend, several other nurses had gathered on the same table, comparing measles cases.
‘It’s so hard on the mothers,’ said Belinda, a tall, dark-haired nurse who had joined the home in the New Year, fresh from her QNI training, but who was now thoroughly used to working on the district. ‘They all say the same thing – they wish they’d never come back after being evacuated. They think that if they’d stayed away in their billets, the children would still be all right.’
Edith sat down. ‘That’s daft, though. You can catch measles as easily out in the countryside as in the city. It doesn’t care who it infects.’
Alice agreed. ‘Yes, of course, but it’s true that the parents feel awful and blame themselves. Anyway, it will be the end of term soon and perhaps some families will go back to where they were evacuated because of the threat of invasion.’
Mary immediately turned on her. ‘Don’t talk rot. There won’t be one.’
Alice looked at her levelly. ‘We don’t know that, Mary. There might well be. We just can’t say. The fact is that some parents have told the schools they’re taking their children away again, and it’s making the teachers’ lives very difficult as they don’t know what to plan for the new September term, invasion or no invasion.’ One of Alice’s friends was a teacher at a nearby primary school, and so she was up to date on their day-to-day problems.
Mary wasn’t prepared to argue with Alice, who – it was generally acknowledged – was better informed than anyone else when it came to current affairs, as she spent much of her spare time reading the newspapers or glued to the news on the wireless. She decided to change the subject instead.
‘What did Peggy have to say?’ she asked, turning to Edith.
Edith had quite forgotten about the envelope in the hurry to sort out her potentially infected clothing, find a fresh set for tomorrow’s visit, and to restock her Gladstone bag for the morning. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had a moment to look.’
‘Well, how about now?’ demanded Mary impatiently. In the absence of any letters for herself, Edith receiving one was the next best thing.
Edith obligingly reached into her pocket and drew it out, jagging it open with her index finger. ‘All right … she says it’s a shame we haven’t seen each other for a while, and she knows what it feels like …’ Edith took a quick gulp and went on, ‘so why don’t I come and meet her in the Duke’s Arms on Friday evening after work and we can pretend it’s like old times. Well, without Harry and Pete, of course.’ There, she’d done it, she’d said his name in front of a group of people and not broken down. She silently patted herself on the back.
‘Would you want to?’ asked Alice doubtfully.
Edith sighed. ‘If you’d asked me even last week, I’d have said no. But she might have a point. I don’t want to spend the summer moping around. Harry wouldn’t have wanted it and neither would Pete. After all, what harm could it do? It’s only down the road and we’ll know lots of people there. Clarrie might come.’ Peggy’s friend Clarrie worked in the gas-mask factory as well. She too was part of the old school gang. ‘Why don’t you come along, Al? Or Mary? Belinda?’
Alice shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. You go, but I’ll stay in.’ Everyone knew her idea of a good time was an evening spent reading a book in her room.
Belinda raised her eyebrows. ‘I might. There’s a chance my brother will be in town, and if he is I’ll want to try to meet him, but who knows with the trains these days. So I’ll see, if that’s all right with you.’
Mary beamed. ‘Count me in. Charles will be working late again, and so just you try to stop me.’
Gwen let her good friend Miriam take the window seat as they stepped onto the bus. Miriam had been adamant that Gwen should not waste her day off but accompany her to the West End for a shopping trip. Gwen had gone along, but more for the pleasure of spending the afternoon with her friend than with the intention of buying anything. She wasn’t particularly interested in what she wore; clothes served a purpose and that was that. Most of the time she wore her nurse’s uniform anyway. Miriam, however, had other ideas.
‘You can’t let what’s going on in the world stop you doing what you enjoy,’ she had said. ‘For me, that’s buying nice clothes. No, don’t wrinkle your nose like that. If you don’t want to buy anything yourself, I shan’t make you, but do me the favour of coming along and telling me what suits me best.’
Gwen had recognised this was simply a ruse, as nobody knew what suited Miriam better than Miriam herself. Now she glanced at her friend, beautifully turned out in a lilac skirt with matching light cotton jacket over a cream blouse with a delicate lace collar. She had kept her figure and it was hard to believe she had an adult son. Other women might have been jealous, but Gwen was happy for her, as she knew it mattered to Miriam that she looked smart. She had her role to play as the wife of a successful businessman. Also, she simply loved clothes.
‘I’m sure this little summer coat will come in useful,’ she said happily, patting the bag on her lap. ‘And how lucky that they had a scarf to go with it. You could have got one as well, Gwen.’
Gwen laughed. ‘Where would I wear it? Teaching first aid? I don’t think so.’
‘You’d wear it for the pure pleasure of it,’ Miriam laughed. ‘I always feel better when I have a nice scarf. It can make or break an outfit, you know.’
Gwen raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m sure it can. Just not one of mine.’ She glanced down at her plain grey skirt and serviceable beige blouse, which she’d run up from material she’d found at Ridley Road market.
‘Yes, even yours.’ Miriam tapped her on the arm. ‘Something in dark green would lift it. I have something I could lend you if you like.’
Gwen shook her head. ‘Thank you, but it would be wasted on me. You keep it. You’ll enjoy it more.’
They fell silent as they passed the shop fronts of Tottenham Court Road. There were still goods to buy but not as many as this time last year. There was an unspoken air of people going shopping while they still could. It was partly why Gwen had come. Even if she didn’t want anything, it was still a spectacle, and she didn’t know if or when she would be able to do so again. Like so many Londoners she was filled with a sense of deep foreboding.
A young couple got on and sat a few seats in front of them. The young man wore the uniform of the RAF, and the girl looked as if she had been crying as her eyes were red and puffy. She clung to his arm and looked imploringly up into his face. They were too far away for Gwen to hear what they were saying, but it wasn’t hard to guess.
She caught Miriam’s gaze.
Miriam shifted in her seat. ‘Did I tell you what I have decided to do?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Miriam nodded in determination. ‘I’m joining the WVS.’