Rainbow's End (41 page)

There was silence in the kitchen until the door had shut behind her, then Mick walked slowly round the table and sat down in the chair his stepdaughter had just vacated. ‘Poor wee lass,’ he said heavily. ‘She’s not realised she might be sent miles from Tolly, once she gets to France. Ada, she’s exchanging one slavery for another, and for a worse one, what’s more. Can’t you forbid her? She’s not strong . . . tell me, are she and Tolly promised since I was last home?’

Ada shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure they aren’t. They’re very fond of one another – whilst he was on board the
Duchess of Verona
they wrote often, and when war broke out and he came back into the hospital they were together most o’ the time when they weren’t workin’. I’ve often wondered, to tell you the truth, how things would pan out between ’em. I mean I knew they were very fond of one another, but there were never . . . never a whisper of romance, nothin’ like that.’

‘Oh, lor’. And our Ellen’s in love wi’ the feller,’ Mick said. ‘Oh, dear.’

Deirdre looked from one face to the other. Why
Oh, dear
? There was nothing wrong with being in love, was there?

‘An’ there’s our Ellen, nursing all sorts, officers, sergeants, sailors,’ Ada said sadly. ‘An’ never more’n friendliness from her to them . . . many a feller’s fallen for her, wanted to meet when they left the ward, to take her out, to stay friends. But she wouldn’t, wasn’t interested. An’ we’re that fond o’ Tolly . . .’

‘Aye. But if he . . .’ Mick paused and glanced from Deirdre to Donal, then back again. He cleared his throat. ‘If he ain’t the marryin’ kind . . .’

‘Yes, well, there you are,’ Ada said. She said it hurriedly. ‘Now where’s me shoppin’, Dee?’

‘There,’ Deirdre said bluntly, pointing to the basket. ‘Undo the newspaper, Mam. I tole Mr Austen me da was home an’ he put a bit extry on.’

‘Extry?’ Ada leaned across and unwrapped the newspaper, then sat back in her chair, eyes sparkling. ‘Well, look at that, will ye, Mick!’

‘Wharris it?’ Deirdre said. It was all meat to her, but this particular piece looked bony and fatty and not particularly appealing.

‘It’s a leg o’ mutton, a prime piece,’ Ada said in a dazed voice. ‘An’ some scrag end for stew! What did you ’ave to give Mr Austen for that?’ she added suspiciously. ‘You din’t go partin’ wi’ your dacent boots, did you?’

‘I give him a carrot an’ an onion an’ three and nine,’ Deirdre said. ‘What ’ud ole Austen want wi’ me boots, Mam? They’d be too small for him.’

‘Three shillin’ an’ ninepence? You got that lot for three shillin’ an’ ninepence?’ Ada said unbelievingly. ‘Eh, pull the other one, our Dee.’

‘Well, I did,’ Deirdre said shortly. ‘You won’t let our Ellen go to France, will you, Mam? I don’t want her to go to France.’

‘I don’t want her to go either, but she’s norra child, chuck,’ Ada said gently. ‘I can’t tell her what to do now, like I did when she were your age. But she’ll be as safe in a hospital over there as she is here, I dare say. And now let’s stop worryin’ about things what we can’t change an’ get this stew a-goin’. The joint’ll have to go to the baker’s first thing tomorrer mornin’, so’s he can roast it for our Sunday dinner.’

Ellen closed the kitchen door firmly behind her and went straight up to the room she shared with Deirdre. She knew that Ada must worry about Fred and Bertie, who were both at sea, but her mother tried to keep such worries to herself and so far – Ellen crossed her fingers – the boys had been all right. Dick was still at home, fortunately. He was quite an old married man now, with two small children and a job at the Bankhall Distillery on the corner of Juniper Street, and Ozzie was a clerk in the shipping offices down on the quayside. He was married as well, but his job was a complicated one and there had been no mention of his joining the armed forces.

So Mam’s better off than some, Ellen told herself, going over to her chest of drawers and beginning to examine the clothing in the topmost drawer. Some mams had four or five sons away, whereas Ada Docherty only had a husband and two of her sons. If I go . . . why shouldn’t I go, anyway? They need nurses and I’m pretty experienced, and besides, if I were married I wouldn’t be at home now . . . and I have to be with Tolly!

It had been a strange relationship, though. She simply could not help herself. She loved Tolly desperately but she understood his reluctance to commit himself with the country at war and the pair of them worked off their feet. And he was better; she really thought he was. When they went to the cinema he held her hand; when they walked in the park he tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow. He even kissed her sometimes – kisses light as the touch of a moth and, she supposed, as passionless – but long ago, on the night that the twins had so nearly been drowned, she had made up her mind. She would rather have Tolly’s friendship and affection than anyone else’s real love. She would settle for a platonic relationship, if that was all Tolly could offer, and keep to herself the wild, surging hope that one day he would suddenly realise that what he felt for her was true love.

So the news that he had volunteered to go to France as a stretcher bearer was terribly hard to take. It was as though he had said to her: ‘You mean nothing to me; I’m prepared to go far away from you and risk death, but I’m not prepared to stay with you and risk life.’ Because that was the cold truth – he said he wouldn’t let her get close to him in case one of them was hurt but Ellen knew, in her heart, that he was afraid of warmth and closeness. He didn’t want the complications of love but preferred the cooler flame of a friendship which could be terminated, if necessary, without too much pain on either side. Ellen acknowledged that had she truly felt only friendship for him she would have waved him off to France regretfully, but with none of the tearing pain that she felt now, a pain made worse, she thought, by his carefully casual attitude towards her, which forbade her to show the emotion she felt.

But she had decided to settle for friendship, so although she had been unable to help her grief and despair showing just now, she would never let Tolly see them. And besides, wasn’t she going to France as well? Didn’t she intend to follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary, so that at least she could have the pleasure of his company?

Sometimes she wondered what she would do if Tolly fell in love with someone else, but she didn’t worry about it, because she didn’t believe it would happen. He was in love with her, he just hadn’t realised it yet. And if the battlefields of France were his destiny, then they were hers, too. In the dreadful dream they had both been in France. Well, Mam said it wasn’t a dream it was a nightmare, and nightmares didn’t come true, they were just your mind worrying away at something. So she would go ahead with her plans and forget the stupid dream entirely. Or try to do so.

The ship churned on over a grey and troubled sea and Ellen stood on the deck, feeling every bit as grey and troubled herself. She was on her way to France, but not in quite the way she had planned, because although the hospital authorities had agreed that she could nurse in France, she had no idea how she would be employed, or where. She had been told, guardedly, that there was a big battle being fought shortly and that a great many nurses would be needed, but the authorities had not been prepared to expand further. What was more, she might end up a very long way from Tolly, only able to see him perhaps once or twice in twelve months.

‘If you’d been able to drive . . .’ the woman interviewing her had said, ‘then it would have been a different story. We are very keen to recruit women ambulance drivers and one who is also an experienced nurse would have been doubly useful. But since you can’t, I’m afraid I can only recommend that you are sent to France. You might find yourself on a hospital train, in one of the fall-back hospitals, or even at a clearing station near the front line. However, if the Powers that Be decide the need is greater in the receiving hospitals in England . . .’

Ellen knew there was no point in pleading or saying she might just as well stay in her present job and in fact she was one of the lucky ones. Quite shortly after her initial application she received her posting and the time of her cross-channel sailing, though she had no idea how she would be deployed. And here she was, half-way across the English channel with a clutch of other medical staff, waiting and wondering still.

When her posting had arrived, Ellen had made her way up to a particular house on Walton Road where she knew she would find the interest and understanding which she sought, for her mother had wept bitterly and the twins had begged her not to go.

‘It ain’t as if you’re sure of bein’ wi’ Tolly,’ Donal had said, red-eyed. ‘’Cos you isn’t, Ellie. You could end up anywhere. Oh don’t, don’t go!’

‘I must,’ Ellen had said steadily. ‘But I’ll come back, chuck. The Boche don’t shell as far behind the lines as hospitals.’

She knew it wasn’t true, but when truth was painful you kept it from children, she told herself, making her way towards the Bartlett house.

Ellen and Liza Bartlett had been friends ever since Ellen had first begun, tentatively, to attend services at the Barracks. Liza came from a Salvationist background, so was able to help Ellen quite a lot as she gradually joined in more and more of the church activities, and the two girls speedily realised that they had a good deal in common. They were both Songsters, with strong, true voices, able to sing the solo part when occasion demanded. They usually sat next to one another during services, accompanied each other on window-shopping expeditions as they grew up and spent time brushing each other’s hair into new styles. They were both interested in welfare and had started work at the same time, though Liza was a slum officer with the Army, working all hours to see that the poor of the city, particularly the women and children, got as fair a deal as possible. Liza understood about Tolly and in fact had recently had a problem of her own; she had fallen in love with a young man who was not a Salvationist and had not dared to tell her parents, though she had confided at once in Ellen. So naturally enough, when Ellen wanted to tell someone her news her first thought was to go to Liza.

She found her friend up to her elbows in suds, doing her washing. Uniforms were kept spotlessly laundered by your mam, but underwear and your ‘best’ clothing was your own concern. Liza looked up from her work as Ellen knocked briefly on the back door and entered the kitchen. She was a sturdy, square girl with dark, very straight hair pulled back from a wide forehead, clear grey eyes and a high colour in her cheeks. She was wearing a grey cotton dress which was barely discernible beneath the huge apron she had wrapped around herself, and her feet were clad in wooden clogs which clattered as she walked across to the back door and dried herself on the roller towel on the back of it. ‘Well, chuck? Any news?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘Let’s have a cuppa, shall us? You look as though you’ve heard somethin’ at last.’

‘Yes; I’ve heard. I’ll be off as soon as they can arrange a sailing,’ Ellen said brightly. ‘Look, you go on wi’ your work, Liza, and I’ll make the tea. Anyone else wantin’ a cup?’

‘No. Mam’s gone round to see me gran an’ the kids are all in bed, praise be to God,’ Liza said. ‘Well, there’s no denyin’ I’ll miss you, but I know it’s what you want. If you’re determined to mek the tea, I’ll sit down for a moment. I were goin’ to soak that lot for ten minutes or so anyway. They come the whiter for it, you know.’ She settled down at the table with a sigh. ‘Good to get the weight off me feet for a bit. Now, tell me what your mam said when you telled her. An’ the twins? Have you written to Tolly, tellin’ him you’re headed for France? Where’s they sendin’ you, then?’

‘I dunno, that’s the trouble,’ Ellen had said rather gloomily. ‘You know how I feel, Liza . . . but I’ve no choice but to take the posting. And there’s always time off . . . oh, I’ll find out where Tolly is an’ see him, it’s just so hard to explain to the twins and Mam. Mam’s that worried . . . and even Donal got a bit tearful. Dee went an’ said if I were goin’ so were she . . . what a business it is, eh?’

‘It’s a business I wouldn’t mind bein’ involved in,’ Liza said. Her young man, Hubert Evans, had joined up some months ago and was now in France. Letters weren’t a problem – her parents simply accepted that she was writing to a soldier – but even the most affectionate letters could not make up to Liza for his absence.

‘You should’ve come nursin’, wi’ me,’ Ellen said, warming the teapot from the big black kettle steaming over the fire. ‘The only other way is ambulance drivin’ – the lady interviewin’ said they were desperate for lady drivers – but you can’t learn that in a couple o’ days, I dare say.’

‘No-oo, but there is another way,’ Liza said. ‘Tell you in a minute. Now you tell me a bit more. Any chance of bein’ posted to where Tolly is? Only don’t they say stretcher bearers get sent all over? Makes it harder to find ’em.’

‘That’s right,’ Ellen said gloomily. ‘But there’s hospitals and clearing stations all over – the lady interviewing me explained. And of course they’re bringin’ all the worst cases back home because we’ve got better facilities here . . . so she asked if I wouldn’t go to one of the receivin’ hospitals down south instead – Southampton, for instance. They need trained nurses.’

‘Poor Ellie; and you couldn’t explain, because they’d think you were goin’ for all the wrong reasons, I s’pose. But they’re sendin’ you anyway, so
that’s
all right. Now let me tell you what I’m thinkin’ of doin’.’

‘Carry on, queen,’ Ellen said at once. She looked hard at her friend as she handed her a cup of tea. Liza looked remarkably cheerful for one who had more or less said that she was being left out of the adventure! Ellen sat down at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, opposite her friend, cradling her own cup between her hands. ‘Go on, then. Tell!’

‘The Salvationists have a group going over to France from here, to relieve the people who’ve been out there for the past six months or so,’ Liza said. ‘They’ll be up at the Front, where the stretcher bearers go, I dare say. And they’re centred on Rouen. I thought I might ask if I could go. They need the right sort of people, and I thought . . . I thought . . .’