Christmas for the District Nurses. Annie Groves
She ran after Edith, her thick nurse’s cloak over one arm, her Gladstone bag swinging from the other.
Alice watched them go, reflecting on Dermot’s letter, less concerned by what he had said than what he hadn’t. There had been no mention of Mark, Dermot’s best friend, who had also trained at the big Liverpool hospital when they were there. Mark had broken her heart. She had believed that they were destined to be together and that he felt the same as she did. However, the lure of the Spanish Civil War had been stronger and Alice found herself deserted, not for another woman but for a rival against which she could not hope to win: a cause. Gradually she had hardened her heart and poured everything into her work instead.
Yet it was only human to wonder if he was all right. She knew he had returned from Spain and enlisted as a doctor, and was – to the best of her knowledge – somewhere on the south coast, treating the Forces and also any enemy airmen who had been shot down this past year. She told herself it was enough to know that he was alive, doing the work that he loved and was so supremely good at. There could be nothing further between them. But it did mean that, however enthusiastic her colleagues were, the very last thing she ever wanted to do was to go dancing.
‘I thought these new girls were meant to help us out but this has been the slowest day I can remember in all the time we’ve worked here,’ Peggy Cannon complained, pulling off the dusty headscarf that she wore while working in the gas-mask factory. ‘I know they’ve got to register for some kind of war work, but why didn’t they sign up for something they’re good at?’ She rolled up the fraying piece of cotton and shoved it into her bulging handbag.
Clarrie was more forgiving. ‘You forget what we were like at first. We were all fingers and thumbs. Give them a few days and they’ll catch up.’ She shook free her own hair, which was a striking red, all the more noticeable in the dull changing room of the factory.
‘They’ll have to,’ Peggy grumbled. ‘We’re going to be making more than gas masks and boxes now, aren’t we? I heard we were going to do stuff for weapons, rubber seals and that.’
Clarrie glanced around. ‘Don’t go saying that outside these walls.’
Peggy snorted. ‘What do you take me for? Do they seriously think we won’t notice that everything we’re working on is a different shape?’ She buttoned her coat, with its worn patches from several years’ use. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just in a bad mood.’
Clarrie shrugged, used to her friend’s impatience. ‘Well, my sister’s gone and put her name down for the Land Army,’ she said. ‘Can you credit it? She can just about peel a carrot; she’s never grown a thing in her life. Pity the poor farmer who ends up with her.’
Peggy grinned at the idea. ‘Maybe she’ll be good with animals. Used to take that dog you had when you were little out for walks, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, but she didn’t have to kill it and eat it,’ Clarrie pointed out. ‘No, she’s in for the shock of her life. And she’ll most likely be out in the middle of nowhere, no dancing or nothing.’
One of their fellow workers passed by, half hearing their conversation. ‘Oh, are you going dancing?’ she asked casually. ‘Well, good for you, Peggy, cos you’re over him by now, aren’t you? Let’s face it, he’s been dead much longer than you was wed. Best to get back out on the dance floor!’ and she was off in a trail of cheap perfume, leaving Peggy with her jaw dropping at the insensitivity of the comment.
Clarrie tucked her arm through her friend’s. ‘Pay her no notice. She don’t know what she’s talking about.’
Peggy swallowed hard. ‘I know. She’s nothing but hot air, that one. She don’t know the half of it and that’s a fact. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She found it was suddenly hard to breathe. She’d go for ages convincing herself that she was all right, but all it took was one callous remark and she was back down in the deep well of grief, mourning Pete, who’d been her husband for less than a year when he’d been killed at Dunkirk. As if a bit of dancing could put right the unfairness of that.
Not that she hadn’t tried. Where Edith had stayed in, craving silence and stillness to remember her Harry, Peggy had thrown herself into escaping, drinking, dancing, staying out, and generally carrying on as if there were no tomorrow. Sometimes it helped her to forget, more often it just brought it home to her how wonderful Pete had been and how nobody else came close. She’d had one particular dreadful incident, when she was attacked by a Canadian airman whose dark good looks hid his violent heart. She had even bounced back from that, as far as the few people who knew about it could tell. Only Peggy knew that her love for Pete was so deeply buried that nothing could touch it, and she couldn’t see how she would ever get over his loss.
Clarrie glanced at her watch. ‘Tell you what, shall we have a quick one down the Duke’s Arms? It’s Friday, there might be some of the old gang from school there.’
Peggy perked up. That was one place it wouldn’t matter if two young women came in for a drink on their own. They had plenty of friends who often went there and most of them had known Pete.
‘Yes, let’s. Pete’s mum won’t be waiting for me, it’s her WVS day.’ Peggy continued to live with her mother-in-law and, although the two women had their occasional differences, there was comfort to be had in the knowledge that they had both loved Pete.
The cheerful old pub was not far from the factory and already the main bar was buzzing with conversation. There was nothing fancy about it, and from the outside it was impossible to tell, in the blackout, that it was full of old metal lamps inside and well-polished woodwork, with a welcoming atmosphere that drew the regulars back time after time. Clarrie waved at a few people as she pushed her way in, Peggy – who was shorter – following behind. Clarrie was like a beacon with her bright hair, and Peggy sometimes felt in her friend’s shadow.
‘Hello, girls, what can I get you?’ A familiar figure was standing at the bar.
‘Billy! What you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home getting ready for the big day?’ Peggy came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the young man grinning sheepishly over the top of his pint.
‘Dutch courage,’ he admitted, setting down his glass. ‘Come on, what’ll it be? You might as well take advantage of my last night as a free man.’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Surely you of all people aren’t having second thoughts, Billy?’
Billy gave her an incredulous look. ‘Me? Of course not. It’s just, well, you know, I’ve got to stand up in front of everyone and say my vows. What if I mess it up? I’m getting all nervous just thinking about it.’ He grinned to make a joke of it but they could see his hand was shaking a little.
Peggy faced him seriously. ‘You won’t, Billy. And, even if you do, who’s going to care? Kath won’t, she’ll be glad that you finally made it to the altar at last. She won’t want you smelling like a brewery though, I can tell you that for a fact.’
Billy shook his head firmly. ‘I only just got here. I won’t be staying. Only wanted to settle me nerves a bit then I’ll get back to Ma’s, make sure she’s all set for tomorrow. What can I get you?’
‘Half a shandy,’ said Clarrie at once.
Peggy was tempted to say port and lemon, but that drink had been her downfall once too often. ‘I’ll have the same,’ she said, and caught Clarrie’s brief glance of approval.
‘Then I’ll have a half meself as a top-up and that’s it, no more till after the … the wedding.’ Billy suddenly went bright red. ‘I still can’t believe it. I’m really marrying Kath tomorrow. How about that?’ His eyes shone as he passed them their shandies.
‘Cheers, Billy,’ said Clarrie. ‘If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you and Kath. We’ll be there in our glad rags to wish you well. Half eleven,