Читать книгу An Orphan’s War - Molly Green - Страница 9

Maxine rushed upstairs to read Johnny’s latest letter in the privacy of her bedroom. Sometimes they were censored and someone would black out words or even whole sentences. In the last letter, he mentioned he was going abroad but couldn’t say any more, but in this one he sounded excited and told her not to worry if she didn’t hear from him for some time. Something big was on. He finished off:

But if anything should happen to me, Max darling, be happy knowing I wanted to do the right thing and fight for my country. And don’t waste a minute of your life.

All my love, and can’t wait to see you again.

Always your Johnny xxx

She looked at the date – 8th May, but the postmark was blurred. It had taken nearly three weeks to arrive. This was the first time Johnny had hinted that he might not make it. Maxine chewed her bottom lip as she carefully folded his letter and put it back into the envelope. What if he was severely injured? Needing her. She’d never forgive herself if she wasn’t there for him. Momentarily, she closed her eyes. London was out of the question.

The following day, she was in the nurses’ common room when she picked up the Daily Express one of the other nurses had tossed aside. The headlines shouted triumphantly:

TENS OF THOUSANDS SAFELY HOME ALREADY

Many more coming by day and night

SHIPS OF ALL SIZES DARE THE GERMAN GUNS

Conscious she was due back on the ward in ten minutes, she skimmed the article. Every possible vessel which sailed had been sent out to rescue the men … the British, French and Allied troops trapped on the French coast. Her heart missed a beat. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that Johnny was on the other side of the Channel – in Dunkirk. And try as she might, she couldn’t picture him stepping into one of the rescue boats. He would always see that others go before him – inherent in his medical training.

Maybe she was allowing her imagination to run wild. She turned the page, desperate to read more, but there were other stories of battles and no more mention of Dunkirk.

Maxine scanned the papers every day, obsessed with the story. It was the longest week and by the 4th June over 300,000 soldiers had been brought back to British shores. Lists of names of those rescued were published every day, but she never saw Johnny Taylor’s name amongst them. Of course she had no proof he was even at Dunkirk. But she didn’t need proof. His letters had stopped and, as far as she was concerned, that was enough. She was only thankful she’d never applied to St Thomas’. Johnny would need to know she was close by when he returned.

It was hard to push Johnny to the back of her mind and care for her patients. Injured men and women were coming into the hospital every single day, and every time she dreaded it would be Johnny they brought in on a stretcher. She was still convinced he was in Dunkirk and hadn’t been rescued and tried to ask around on how she could find any information but no one seemed to have any idea.

‘You could try the Red Cross,’ Sister Marshall suggested when she came across Maxine in tears one day in the nurses’ room. ‘They are the ones who send information to families when British soldiers are injured …’ she hesitated, ‘or dead. I think they’d be your best bet.’

But she had no luck there either. Until a fortnight later when she received a letter from them. With a lump in her throat, she read:

Dear Mrs Taylor,

We are very sorry to inform you that your husband, Cpl. John L Taylor has been taken prisoner by the German Army at Dunkirk. He bravely volunteered to remain so he could attend to his wounded comrades. When there is more news we will, of course, let you know.

Yours sincerely,

Mary Jackson (Mrs)

Welfare Officer

Maxine swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump. She was right. He had been sent to Dunkirk. Dear Johnny. Whatever must he have felt, seeing the ships rescuing thousands of soldiers and he wasn’t one of them. But it seemed he’d made the decision, just as she expected he would. Maxine felt a sting behind her eyes. Yes, he was brave, and she could well imagine him doing just that.

Another agonising fortnight passed with no more news. Maxine was in the ward helping a patient to walk to the toilet, grateful that she was a slight woman, though she still weighed heavily on her arm, when Sister Marshall came up to her, a look of concern in her eyes.

‘I’ll take Mrs Harvey, Nurse. There’s a telegram for you in Matron’s office.’

She knew. Cold sweat beaded her forehead. She didn’t even have to open the telegram. She reprimanded herself. Until she heard otherwise she mustn’t crumple. Mustn’t think the worst. It might be him and he was writing to say he was safe. But she knew any form of contact from him would not be in the form of a telegram.

With hammering heart she half ran down the corridor.

‘Nurse!’ A Sister she didn’t know held her hand in the air. ‘I must remind you – you may only run for fire or haemorrhage.’

‘I’m sorry, Sister.’

Her feet now feeling like lead, she knocked on Matron’s door.

‘Come in.’ Matron looked up. ‘Oh, yes, Nurse Taylor. Do sit down.’

Maxine’s knees felt they would give way at any moment. Defeated, she sat and caught her breath.

‘A telegram has arrived for you.’ Matron handed her a blue envelope.

With trembling hands Maxine took the telegram. Even before she saw the word ‘priority’ written on the envelope, she knew …

‘If you’d like to take a moment and read it quietly, I’ll leave you to it.’ Matron disappeared out of the door. ‘Call me if you need me. I won’t be far away.’

Her fingers could barely work under the seal to open it. Heart pounding in her throat, she pulled out the sheet of paper with the printed message.

From Lieutenant-Colonel J. A. Donaldson

6th July 1940

Dear Mrs Taylor,

May I be permitted to express my sincere sympathy with the sad news concerning your husband Cpl. John L Taylor. I regret to say that we have been notified today via the Swiss Red Cross of his death from pneumonia.

Your husband was an exemplary soldier and his loss is deeply regretted by us all.

When we receive any of his effects they will be forwarded on to you.

Once again please accept the deep sympathy of us all.

Yours very sincerely,

J. Anthony Donaldson

The paper fluttered to the floor. Maxine couldn’t summon the energy to bend down and pick it up. A terrible shaking took hold of her body. She dropped her head in her hands, gasping to hold back the sobs. She mustn’t break down. She needed to look after her patients. They relied on her.

She heard the door open and the solid figure of Matron step in.

‘Oh, my dear … it’s bad news, isn’t it?’

Maxine nodded, speechless.

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes.’ It was a whisper.

‘I’m sending you home right away. Take two days off.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t …’

‘We’ll manage, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Matron put a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up. Matron’s face was creased in sympathy.

‘Please let me go back to the ward, Matron.’ Maxine forced herself to speak calmly. ‘I’ll be better if I can work. I’ll have plenty of time to think about it when I’m off-duty.’

‘Very well.’ Matron became brisk. ‘But I insist you go to the canteen and have a strong cup of tea with sugar. You’re in shock, my dear, though you may not realise it. And if you are not feeling better tomorrow, please stay at home.’

Somehow she got through the day, even forgetting for a few minutes at a time about the telegram and the terrible news. And then it would sweep over her in a sickening cloud. Johnny – her dearest friend since childhood. She would never see him again. Never look into his twinkling brown eyes. Never laugh at his feeble jokes.

She delivered the last bedpan to an elderly lady who reminded her of her headmistress. A hard-faced woman with frizzy grey curls and bitter lines around her mouth, who was furious to be forced to use such an item for her private ablutions.

Maxine pulled the curtains around the patient and tucked the bedpan under the cover. ‘There you are, Mrs Shepherd. I’ll be back shortly.’

‘See that you do, Nurse.’ Mrs Shepherd looked at Maxine with reproachful eyes, as though it were her fault. ‘I waited a full quarter of an hour this morning before someone came to take it away.’

That evening, Maxine stepped into the hall and her mother came out immediately, her face red, all of a fluster.

‘My dear, was it bad news?’

Maxine felt caught off guard. How did her mother know something had happened before she did?

‘The telegram boy brought it here and I told him you were at the Infirmary.’ She took her daughter’s coat and hung it on the rack. ‘It’s Johnny, isn’t it?’

‘Let me tell you and Dad together, Mum.’

‘I’d better make us all a cup of tea.’

A brandy would be more like it, Maxine thought, but she simply nodded and her mother disappeared into the kitchen.

She found her father in his chair in the sitting room reading his newspaper, glasses slipping down his nose, his favourite slippers with a hole in each toe encasing socks which she’d had to snip the tops off to make room for his poor swollen ankles. He rose up with difficulty and gave her a hug.

‘Your mother says a telegram came here for you, but she sent the boy to the hospital.’

‘It’s very bad news,’ Maxine began as her mother appeared with the tea tray. She felt the tears prick at the back of her eyes. She must keep calm. Must let them know she was being sensible and not acting impulsively. ‘Johnny’s dead.’ There was no other way to say it.

Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I knew it … I just knew it. As soon as he’d been taken by those dreadful Germans. Didn’t I tell you, Stan?’

Her father gave a long sigh. ‘Yes, you did, dear.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘And I’m very sorry to hear it, Maxine. He was a good lad and thought the world of you. Did they give you any details?’

‘Yes.’ Maxine’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Pneumonia.’

‘Oh, the poor boy.’ A tear spilled down her mother’s cheek. ‘Well, at least you’ve got us. We’ll look after you at home and help you through.’

‘Thanks, Mum, and I really mean it, but I’ve decided to apply to St Thomas’.’

‘You’re not going on about moving to London again?’ Her mother’s eyes were wide. ‘You don’t want to make a decision as important as this without more time. You’ve had a terrible shock, dear, and you’re not thinking straight.’

‘I am, Mum. Everywhere I look around here reminds me of Johnny—’ She broke off, her voice trembling. ‘I must go and see his parents. They’ll be heartbroken … their only son. Oh, it’s not fair. It’s just not fair.’

Her eyes swimming, she banged her cup on its saucer and rushed out of the room, but not before she heard her father say, ‘Leave her be, Edna. She’s old enough to make her own decision. The change is probably just what she needs to take her mind off things.’

Maxine heard back from St Thomas’ within a few days. They were interested! Because of the war, provided she had references from the hospital, they weren’t going to waste time interviewing her. There was a desperate shortage of nurses so they would like her to start as soon as she could give in her notice. They had every reason to believe that her initial training at the Royal Infirmary was first class and that she’d be a real asset at St Thomas’ as a nurse at their Nightingale School for the next two years. Would she let them know by return that she was still interested so they could prepare her paperwork?

It had happened. One letter to the hospital had led to her life changing – but only because her dearest Johnny had died. She swallowed. She was determined to do her best in this war, whatever the cost. She owed it to him.

As soon as she had given in her notice, Sister said in view of the circumstances she could leave as soon as she was ready. A fortnight later the arrangements were in place. And then it was her last day. Maxine had said her goodbyes to the other nurses and patients and as she was about to leave by the staff door, Sister Dugdale stopped her and put a small package in her hands.

‘From all of us on the ward,’ she said. ‘You’ve worked hard,’ she continued, her voice as crisp as her cap and apron. ‘The makings of an excellent nurse so long as you don’t get carried away with your emotions. It’s difficult, I know … perhaps the most difficult, but it’s vital you don’t get personally involved with individual patients to the point where you can’t do a professional job.’

Maxine knew Sister was referring to Robin, only six, on the children’s ward. The child had been run over in the blackout and they said his injuries were so bad he probably wouldn’t survive. But he had. Maxine had been determined that he would pull through. His parents were constantly at his bedside, but when they left for the day she would talk to him, give him sips of Lucozade, read to him. Her reward was that he slowly recovered and her favourite time of the day was when she came on duty and his face lit up in a beaming smile. She could have hugged him to bits. Three days before his discharge she’d come on duty to find his bed freshly made up.

‘Have they already sent Robin home?’ she’d asked, happy that the day had come, but disappointed she hadn’t been there to say goodbye.

There was a few seconds’ silence. A tension in the ward. Maxine looked at Fuller and White, the two other nurses. Then Fuller said in a low voice, ‘He died in the night.’

She’d run to the toilets and sat on the seat, sobbing her eyes out. Eventually she got up and combed her hair and arranged her cap. She looked terrible. Eyes puffy and red. Sister was sharp with her, and she thought at the time what a hard woman Sister was. But experience taught her differently. Sister was right. She probably didn’t have the perfect temperament to be a nurse, but she’d do her level best, especially now they really were at war. And if one day she could become a children’s nurse, it might be her salvation.

The night before Maxine left home for London there was something she needed to do. She knew it would take all her courage.

‘I think I’ll have an early night,’ she told her parents after the three of them had spent an awkward evening in the front room, none of them knowing quite what to say.

‘I don’t blame you, love.’ Her father smiled sympathetically, his eyes full of affection. ‘You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow, and an early train to catch.’

‘I’ll say goodnight then.’

In her bedroom Maxine reached for the top shelf in her wardrobe and removed a shoebox, laying it on the bed. She lifted the lid to reveal Johnny’s letters in a neat pile – and a navy blue ring box. She took the ring box out, then gently removed her engagement ring, remembering when Johnny had first slipped it on her finger. Emeralds were said to be unlucky and it had turned out to be true, she thought sadly.

‘Goodbye, Johnny,’ she spoke aloud, the words almost choking her. ‘I’ve loved you since I was eight, but I must leave you now to rest in peace.’

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she kissed the ring and pressed it in its slot. The lid made a final snap as she closed it and laid the little box on top of Johnny’s letters. Satisfied, she slid the shoebox back on the shelf in the wardrobe. The ring would be safe there.