Cousins at War (39 page)

After hearing what her niece had to say, Gracie, too, had difficulty in keeping from weeping. ‘You did an awful thing, Olive, killing an unborn babe that would have been a grandchild to
both your mother and me, but I can understand why you did it and I’m grateful to you for not making any more trouble for Neil. It seems you do have a heart, after all.’

‘Broken and patched up and nothing like as good as new.’ Olive gave a tight little smile. ‘I came home to confess to you, to try to get your forgiveness before I started my new
life with Ron.’

Bending down, Gracie picked up her handbag and got to her feet. ‘You have my forgiveness, Olive, and I wish you every happiness in your marriage. I hope you find love with your Ron but
even if love doesn’t come, I hope you’ll never feel you’ve sacrificed your life in vain.’

Olive gripped her hand. ‘Thanks for understanding, Gracie. You know, it wasn’t till Neil married that I grew up, and I promise you I’m a different person now, but it’s
best that I never come back to Aberdeen again.’

‘But Olive . . .’ Hetty stood up in distress. ‘You must come back, I can’t lose you again.’

On her way to the door, Gracie turned back, ‘I haven’t had a letter from Neil for a while but you won’t want him to know about . . .’

‘He must never know,’ Olive implored. ‘I couldn’t face him again as it is but I’d hate him to know about the baby.’

‘He’d as much to do with the making of it as you,’ Gracie murmured.

‘No, it was all my doing. I forced him.’

‘He wasn’t blameless, but I’ll not say a word. I’d better leave you now to sort things out with your mother.’

Gracie slipped out quietly and, as she went to catch the tram, she let out a long sigh. What Olive had told her had been a great shock but the girl had probably done the best thing for everybody
and it showed that, no matter how well you thought you knew people, you didn’t really know them at all. She found it difficult to believe that Olive would ever commit herself to a loveless
marriage but what the girl had told her had taken her mind off her worry about her son, for a short time at least. Why hadn’t Neil written? The war had been over for over a year, so he
couldn’t still be fighting.

Olive took the irrevocable step on 29 June, 1946. The chaplain performed the ceremony in the ward with nurses, doctors and patients as the congregation and many furtive hands
raised handkerchiefs to eyes as the disabled man made his vows in a clear voice that echoed round the room, but Olive’s quiet responses were even more moving. She had been lent a proper
wedding dress – fitted to the waist then billowing out into a full skirt looped up at intervals by lace strips dotted with tiny pearls. Her headdress, a stiff band of organdie, was
embroidered with the same small pearls, as was her long veil. One of the nurses had said that she looked beautiful and, if she wasn’t as radiant as she might have been, she had an inner glow
that made all hearts go out to her when she bent to let Ron kiss her after he had slipped the slim ring on her finger.

The padre, a shrewd man, gripped her hand tightly when he was congratulating them, to let her know that he understood and approved of what she was doing. This made her egg-shell control crack,
and she had to turn away on the pretext of coughing. When she turned back, Ron looked so happy that she regretted her little lapse and kissed him soundly to make up for it, raising a ripple of
applause from the nurses and cheers from the other patients.

When she noticed that Ron was looking tired, she said that they would have to go, although the celebration was at its most convivial. An ambulance had been provided to take them to their new
home – a rented cottage on a neighbouring farm estate – and they were left alone for the first time since they had been pronounced husband and wife.

Olive felt shy, but Ron said, ‘I was really proud of you today, Scottie. No man could have had a lovelier bride.’

‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ she scoffed.

‘It wasn’t the dress, it was something . . . something about you. I’ve never seen you like that.’

‘Wait till you see me first thing tomorrow morning,’ she laughed, trying to stop the compliments, which made her feel awkward. ‘You’ll get the shock of your
life.’

‘I don’t care what you look like in the morning, I was the happiest man in the world this afternoon.’

She knew that she should return the compliment but he was not expecting it and she couldn’t bring herself to do it . . . not that she was unhappy, but she was too nervous about the future.
Maybe she would come to love Ron – she did like him very much – or maybe she would come to hate him. It was up to herself which way it went.

Looking round the small room, which had not seemed so tiny when she saw it before without the wheelchair in it, she had a sense of belonging, although it was far removed from the elegance of the
large mansion in which she had been brought up. The furniture, which had come with the house, was old-fashioned but she quite liked the look of it. Other young couples had lived here – it had
been used by farm labourers before mechanisation had decimated the number of workers – had loved here, had been happy here. It had stood empty for years, the farmer had told her, but
he’d had it cleaned up, and now the brasses were twinkling, the range was shining, the soot had been removed from the old black kettle on the hob. When her eyes fell on the table, a scrubbed
oblong with side leaves, she laughed out loud at what was sitting on it. ‘Oh, look, Ron!’ she exclaimed, pointing.

He, too, laughed at the china chamber pot filled with tea roses. ‘A gazunder! Somebody’s got a good sense of humour.’

‘It was very thoughtful, whoever did it.’

‘Come and sit beside me, Scottie. You don’t mind if I keep calling you that, do you? I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you being an Olive.’

She pulled a wooden chair next to him. ‘I quite like being called Scottie.’ She smiled at him when he lifted her hand. It was good to feel loved. ‘We’ll be comfortable
here.’

‘I’ll be happy wherever I am as long as I’ve got you.’

‘Oh, Ron, you’re such a nice man, I wish I could . . .’

He pulled a face, ‘I can put up with knowing you don’t love me, as long as I know you’ll never leave me.’

‘I’ll never do that.’

He lay back with his eyes closed, and when his grip on her hand relaxed, she thought that he had fallen asleep. She was able to study him now; his strong face was lined from all the agonies he
had gone through; his hair, so meticulously plastered down for the wedding, was lying in dark strands; his mouth . . . the lips she had kissed . . .

Her heart stirred a little, then she realised that Ron was watching her. ‘Did I pass muster?’ he joked.

She nodded. This was not how she had felt about Neil. This was a kinder feeling, a warmer feeling, but it was probably because she was very tired. ‘I’d better get you ready for
bed,’ she said, standing up in her normal, efficient manner. ‘You’ve had a hectic day.’

In spite of her own hectic day, her feet were light when she went through to the only other room in the house to turn down the bedclothes and, as she did so, she was astonished to find that she
was actually humming a little tune.

Even knowing that Neil was now a widower, she had carried on with her wedding, and the satisfaction she would get from making Ron happy would compensate for all the heartaches her cousin had
caused her.

Ron was sure that the quiet life they led must be boring to his wife and, after giving it much serious thought, he put forward a suggestion one day about five months after
their wedding. ‘Scottie, I think you should apply for a part-time job at the hospital.’

Olive gasped, ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t leave you.’

‘Yes, you could. Somebody’s always popping in to see me in the afternoons so you could make the lunch early and have something easy for our tea. You could manage say, three or four
hours a day?’

‘And you wouldn’t mind?’

‘I wouldn’t have said it if I minded and the extra money would come in handy. My pension’s not exactly a fortune.’

Having had to juggle each week with their finances to meet all their expenses, Olive could not deny this and she knew that the hospital would be glad of her help. It was only a ten-minute walk
away, so she arranged to work from one until five and although she felt guilty about leaving Ron every afternoon, she was sure that he would not be on his own for long because, as he had said,
somebody popped in to see him nearly every day, neighbours, nurses and orderlies who knew him. Even doctors who had attended him liked to call in for a chat occasionally. It also did her good to be
free of the confines of the tiny cottage for a short time and she soon settled back into the swing of things.

She had been back at work for a month when she went home to find her husband in a most peculiar mood and hoped that it was not a recurrence of the depression which had replaced the old bouts of
violence. He had been on a level plane for some time now and if he was distressed by her absences, she would have to stay at home. ‘Were there no visitors today?’

‘Yes, Driver was here.’

‘I bet she’d plenty to speak about, her ward’s been pretty busy lately with new arrivals.’

‘So I believe . . . er . . . have you anything to tell me?’

It was usually he who was eager to tell her what had gone on during the afternoons and something in his eyes – a hint of accusation? – disquieted her, but she smiled as she said,
‘Not really, just the same old routine – dressings and blood pressures, pills and bedpans. You know.’

‘You’re sure that’s all?’

He was plainly accusing her of something, but what? ‘Ron, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but that was all.’

‘You didn’t see an old friend?’

‘I saw lots of old friends. All the girls I work with are old friends.’

‘An older friend than that.’

‘Ron, what is it? Who are you meaning?’

‘Your cousin – Neil Ferris.’

‘Neil? Is he here? I haven’t seen him.’

Her surprise was clearly genuine but he persisted in the same, rather belligerent, tone, ‘Dot Driver told me that she had a new patient who said he belonged to Aberdeen and when she told
him that one of the sisters came from there, too, he asked your name. Of course, White didn’t mean anything to him but when she said you’d been Olive Potter before we got married, he
said you were his cousin.’

Olive tried to hide how shaken she was by this. ‘I don’t want to see him. I told you he’d no time for me.’

A corner of Ron’s mouth curled up sarcastically. ‘He had, once, according to what you also told me.’

‘That was . . . a mistake, something that just happened. There was never anything between us . . . not on his side, anyway.’

‘You loved him.’

‘In the past tense, yes, and it is past, Ron, honestly. If you think I’m going to run into his arms, you’re wrong.’

‘His wife died, did you know?’

‘Mum told me when I was home but it makes no difference. I’m happy with you.’

Relaxing, Ron said contritely, ‘Oh, Scottie, I shouldn’t have doubted you, it was unforgivable.’

Grasping his outstretched hand, she sat down beside him. ‘I do forgive you, and I don’t blame you. It must have been awful thinking I was deceiving you, but I swear that’s one
thing I’ll never do, no more than I would ever leave you. We belong together, Ron, for always.’ Patting his hand, she got to her feet, ‘I don’t know about you but I’m
famished.’

While she cooked the sausages – more bread than meat – she pondered over what Ron had told her. Her heart had given a little jump when she heard that Neil was here but that was only
because it had been such a shock, not because she still loved him. That was all over, and she could never face him again after what she had done. Thank goodness there was no likelihood of them
meeting accidentally – she never had any occasion to go into Dot Driver’s ward. Dot Driver’s ward? Mostly for burns . . . and skin grafts!

It was several days before she met Dot in the corridor and would have passed without saying anything, but her colleague stopped her, ‘Did Ron tell you your cousin’s in my
ward?’

Olive’s mouth went bone dry, ‘Yes, he did.’

‘His face is better than it was, he’s had a graft since he came in and he’d like to see you.’

Searching frantically for an excuse, Olive was aware that, no matter how reluctant she was, it would look bad if she didn’t go. ‘We’re up to the eyes just now, but I’ll
try to pop in for a minute before I go home.’

‘I’ll tell him. It’ll buck him up.’

For the rest of that afternoon, Olive thought of what she would say. Neil had never known about the abortion, not even that she was pregnant, and all she needed to do was to find out how he had
come by his injuries and sympathise with him. It might be best not to mention Freda, in case he got upset. Her duty over, she went to his ward, totally unprepared for the rush of emotion which
swept over her when she saw him. The face she had once loved so deeply and which had been so devastatingly handsome that she had fought desperately to make him return that love, was now a hideous
mask, the skin angry and puckered, shining and transparent in patches as if it had been stretched to its utmost limits.

‘I’m a bit of a mess, amn’t I?’ he said wryly.

Swallowing, she tried to conceal the horrified compassion she felt for him and managed to joke, ‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘Aye, I suppose you have, being a nurse. I believe I’ve to congratulate you, though. Sister Driver said you got married a few months ago.’

‘Ron was one of my patients, he’s paraplegic.’

‘She says he’s a very nice man.’

‘Yes, he is.’ To get him off the subject of Ron, she said, ‘How many skin grafts have you had altogether?’

‘The first was in a hospital in Stuttgart, the second was in Paris, I’ve had one here already and there’s more to come. You wouldn’t have recognised me before.’

Thinking that she would hardly have recognised him now if she hadn’t known who he was, she smiled reassuringly, ‘They can do wonders nowadays. How did it happen?’