A Rose in No-Man's Land (27 page)

“I tried, but he didn’t want me, only Essie. Joe came over and took the money, too.”

“For God’s sake,” Olive exploded. “You know what O’Toole’s like.”

“Piss off,” Molly screamed at them. “Piss off and leave us alone.”

The children started wailing, so they left, picking their way over the broken floorboards and chunks of fallen masonry. What else could they do?

“It’s a disgrace. We have to do something. I’ll go to the police,” Amy said as they stepped out into the cold bleakness of the street. It was heaven compared to the Dawsons’ squalor and despair.

“Bloody rozzers won’t do anything. All the decent ones are in the army.”

“The poor little girl. I bet she’s got no idea what she’s letting herself in for.”

“Wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” Olive sniffed her distaste. “Watched her mother doing it plenty of times. Slum kids grow up quick.”

The thought of what poor little Essie was destined to endure caused Amy to be sick again.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I shouldn’t have eaten that second piece of pork pie last night.”

“You sure that’s all it is?” Olive gave her a speculative look.

“Yes, I’m certain it is.” Amy turned away and entered the café.

Chapter 15

Early the next morning, the bombs rained down on the East End. The noise was terrible, worse than the artillery barrages on the Somme. Through the window, Amy watched flames leaping up into the sky.

Sirens went off in every direction. The fire brigade raced past, followed by the police. Gunfire could be heard in the distance as the army tried to shoot the planes out of the sky.

The scene around them was of chaos, with screaming, shouting people dashing everywhere. Clouds of acrid smoke made it hard to breathe. Someone tried to organize a bucket brigade to put water on the bakery across the road. It had taken a direct hit, and soon the ovens exploded in a giant red fireball. The volunteers turned their attention to stopping the flames from spreading to the shops next door. The fire brigade worked desperately on a tenement just at the back of the café. Absolute pandemonium reigned as hysterical people rushed around searching for loved ones.

The police erected makeshift barricades to keep people out of the way as rescuers combed the rubble for survivors. Ambulances arrived but, as always, there were too few medical personnel, too many casualties.

“I’ll have to go out and help,” Amy told Olive.

“Yes, yes, and I’ll put the kettle on for tea. I warrant some of those rescue workers will want a cuppa.”

Amy dashed into the street. A fireman hurried toward her carrying a child with a bleeding head wound.

“Put her down here,” Amy instructed. “I’ll dress it. Not too serious, just a flesh wound, I’d say.”

She ripped a strip from her petticoat. “Shh, darling, you’ll be all right. Just lie still.”

The rain stopped, but arctic winds gusted along the streets.

Dozens of survivors were rescued from the rubble. A critically injured man was dragged out. A fireman tried frantically to resuscitate him.

“Cover him with a blanket and leave him,” Amy ordered.

“But…”

“Leave him, leave him,” she screamed, grabbing the fireman by the arm. “He can’t survive. Work on some of these others who can be saved.”

She was applying a splint to a woman’s leg, using a piece of wood, when an elderly man came up to her.

“Nice work. I’m Dr. Thompson.”

“Amy Smithfield.”

“You’ve done this before,” he observed.

“Yes. I don’t think this patient can wait, Doctor. She’s hemorrhaging badly. I’ve put a tourniquet on her leg and splinted her arm.”

“Good girl. We’ll get her in the ambulance straight away.”

The doctor and Amy worked together preparing to do an emergency amputation on a patient whose arm was wedged under a massive pillar. He could not wait for the heavy-lifting equipment to be brought in to haul the rubble away.

“Get these people out of the way,” Dr. Thompson ordered a hovering policeman. “If they can’t help, get rid of them.”

The doctor gave the patient a morphine injection while Amy handed him his instruments. “Not ideal conditions,” he said. “I operated in much worse in South Africa. Wouldn’t let me go to this one, said I was too old. Absolute poppycock. He’ll do. Get him into an ambulance. What about you?”

“Gallipoli and France. I’m an army nurse.”

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.”

They worked together for hours. Amy almost swayed with fatigue now.

“You’ve done well, young lady,” the doctor said.

A woman awaiting evacuation to the hospital screamed, and her husband rushed over to them.

“My wife’s ready to give birth.”

He was one of Amy’s earlier patients. He wore a bandage around his head and carried his arm in a sling.

The woman, now writhing in agony, started yelling. She was bleeding, and the doctor muttered a swear word as he knelt down to examine her. “She’s dilated, ready to deliver right now, I’d say.”

“Midwifery isn’t my forte,” Amy confessed, shooing the woman’s children away.

“How many will this make?” Dr. Thompson asked her husband.

“Eight.”

The doctor rolled his eyes, while Amy gave a weary smile.

“Tired, my dear?” he asked kindly. “You’ve done a sterling job. We’ve nearly finished.”

The baby came fast, a boy, healthy, if a little undersized, but he cried lustily. Amy wrapped the infant up in a sheet and handed him to his mother.

“A fine boy you’ve got,” she said.

“Thank you.” The mother kissed his little wrinkled face. “You are a bonny one.”

The grinning husband thanked them profusely. “I wanted another boy,” he declared cheerfully.

At least this little mite was wanted. Amy thought of Molly Dawson with her desperate brood.

A young reporter hurried up to them. “I’m from the
Daily Mail
. You are?”

“Get away, we’re too busy.” Dr. Thompson brushed him aside.

“Who are you, miss? Everyone said you did a good job helping the injured.”

“She’s an Australian army nurse,” the doctor snapped. “Now get out of the way, or I’ll call the police over.”

Amy found it difficult to move because her legs felt so stiff and heavy by the time they had finished.

“I’ll walk back to the café with you. Heard Olive’s got the kettle on,” the doctor said, snapping his bag shut as the last ambulance trundled off.

“I can’t understand why I’m so tired, Doctor.” She stumbled, and he grabbed hold of her arm.

“We’ve been working eight hours flat out.”

“On the Gallipoli run, we did fifteen-hour shifts without a break, for days on end, in sweltering heat. France was nearly as bad, only they were more organized there.”

“Tell me, what are you doing back here, Sister?”

They sat at a table in the café with Olive serving tea and sandwiches.

“Where will I get my bloomin’ bread from, now the bakery’s gone?” Olive complained.

“There are plenty of other places. How’s Merv?” the doctor asked.

“All right, last I heard, still stuck in Egypt,” Olive said before waddling off.

“You haven’t answered my question, Amy. What’s an Australian army nurse doing working in a café?”

“How do you know I work here?”

The doctor chuckled. “You’ve served me lunch a couple of times.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember you.”

“Why should you remember an old coot like me? A pretty blonde young woman like yourself, well, a living, breathing man could never forget you.”

“Doctor, please. I think you’re flirting with me.” Amy gave a weary smile.

“If I were twenty years younger, I’d do more than flirt.” He chuckled mischievously. “I’d be courting you in earnest. You’re an excellent nurse, my dear. Why aren’t you in France looking after our boys?”

“They won’t let me.”

“Tell me. Come along, my dear.”

The story spilled out. She told him almost everything, and he listened intently, tutting every so often.

“Bloody idiots,” he snorted. “Your senior sister sounds like a vindictive woman.”

“She made out I went AWOL, which I didn’t. She gave me permission to take leave in Paris but later denied it. I’m sure she’s deliberately withholding my papers.”

“Your friend. Where is he now?”

“France somewhere.”

“No chance of reconciliation?”

“No, he thinks I betrayed him with poor Harry.”

“Harry?”

“He’s a psychiatric patient with severe shell shock, reverted to his childhood. He fought at Fromelles. On the nineteenth of July, 1916. Five and a half thousand Australians were killed or wounded in just one day. No wonder his mind snapped,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion.

“Your captain was jealous, I suppose.”

“Yes, but he knows what Harry’s like now. He went to the nursing home trying to get information out of him.”

“There you are, my dear. He’s probably anxious to make things up with you.”

“I doubt it. Probably only wanted an excuse to get rid of me.”

“If he didn’t? What then?”

“What do you mean?”

“He might have been suffering from battle fatigue, said things in the heat of the moment which he now bitterly regrets. Did you leave a forwarding address?”

“No, I didn’t have one.”

“There you are. He’s probably worried sick. Write to him, my dear. Tell him where you are, and see what happens. He can’t come after you if he doesn’t know where to find you.”

“I didn’t think of that.” Hope blossomed in her chest.
Oh, God, please let that be how it is.
“I felt so devastated after the terrible names he called me, I couldn’t think straight.”

“Give him a chance. You still love him, so what have you got to lose? Write to him. That way you’ll find out for sure, once and for all. If there’s no hope, you’ll have to be brave enough to move on, but if he cares for you, what then?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I am. Write to him and see what he does. Doctor’s orders, there’s a good girl. You know, I might be able to wangle you a nursing job.”

“Oh. Could you?” Hope drove away her weariness.

“Not in a major hospital, at this stage, but one of the convalescent homes. There are dozens of them screaming for qualified staff. I’ve got a few contacts. Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Thank you. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I know. I wouldn’t recommend you otherwise.” After a second cup of tea, he left.

Amy desperately wanted to lie down, but she wanted to tell Olive the heartening news.

“There you are, one good turn leads to another, eh?” Olive leaned over and squeezed her hand. “You trot off to bed and rest for a while. Come down when you feel like it.”

“Thanks, Olive, you’re an angel.”

“I know, but me halo’s pretty rusty,” she chortled.

Amy slept right through until seven the next morning, but when she tried to rise, the room tilted. Delayed shock, most probably. She raised herself slowly and carefully. After a wash she felt better, but hunger made her feel woozy in the stomach.

Down in the scullery, she found Olive slumped at the table, eyes red rimmed from crying.

“What’s the matter?”

Amy poured out a cup of tea and helped herself to some toast.

“What’s wrong? Not bad news from Egypt?”

“No, it’s the Dawsons. They’re gone, all of them.” Olive sniffed loudly.

“Gone? Where to?”

“Dead.”

“What!” A roaring in Amy’s ears almost ruptured her eardrums. Nausea rose up in her throat, and she dashed outside. She took great gulping gasps of air, but it didn’t help. Olive found her on her hands and knees in the backyard, vomiting copiously.

“No bloody pork pies made you sick. Bloody Captain Whatever-his-name-is has got you in the family way.”

“No! No, I can’t be. Oh, Olive, I can’t be.” Amy rocked backwards and forwards in distress.

“Why can’t you be? He shared your bed last time he had leave, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but…”

“Was he careful, you know, did he…”

“Sort of, but we hadn’t seen each other for so long.” Her eyes filled with tears. “We wanted each other so desperately, and he only had a few hours’ leave. We couldn’t think of anything except how much we loved and missed each other.”

Olive snorted. “I’ve heard that bloody tale before.”

“I’m sorry. If I am, I’ll leave straight away.” Where would she go? How would she survive?

“You don’t have to go.”

“What about the gossip?”

“Bloody gossip never worried me. Out of the question you taking any job Doc Thompson gets for you, unless…”

“Unless what? Olive, if there is a baby, I couldn’t destroy it. It’s all I have left of Mark.”

“You going to tell him?” She lifted Amy to her feet.

“No. How can I?” she wailed.

“Get money out of him. He’s wealthy, and you’re not going to get a wedding ring. Why should the poor bloody woman have to suffer all the time?”

“No.” No matter how desperate she got, she couldn’t stoop to blackmail.

“You’re bloody mad. He’s got money. You could get plenty out of him. He’d pay anything to hush up a scandal like this.”

“I couldn’t do it. I’ll write to my cousin Guy. He’ll send me the money for a ticket home.”

She would shelve her pride to Guy and Sophie, but not to Mark. He would probably accuse her of having an affair with another man, then try to blame him. She had been going to write, as Dr. Thompson suggested, but not now; better for him to think she disappeared off the face of the earth.

“Olive, about the Dawsons? I mean, a funeral?”

“Nothing left of them. The house took a direct hit and disintegrated.”

“How awful.” Amy held her head in her hands. “Has God forsaken everyone?”

“They wouldn’t have known what hit them. For poor little Essie anything would be better than what O’Toole had in store for her. A big ox like him would have torn the poor little bugger apart.”

“I hate all of this!” Amy pummeled the table with her fists. “The war, the poverty, the filth. I want to go home, get away from it all.” She broke down and cried like a baby into Olive’s ample chest.