Wartime for the District Nurses. Annie GrovesЧитать онлайн книгу.
Mary finished off the last of her breakfast. ‘I’d better go and restock my Gladstone bag. I didn’t get around to it last night, what with preparing to go out with Charles. I don’t want to run short of anything.’
Edith made a face of mock horror. ‘I should think not. And don’t so much as breathe such a thing in front of Gwen.’
Mary glanced hastily around, as if mentioning the name of their fearsome deputy superintendent was enough to conjure up her presence. ‘Heaven forfend. Right, I’m off. See you later.’
Edith grinned, although she knew that Gwen’s bark was worse than her bite. The older woman had been kindness itself when they’d first learnt the news about Harry. But that was a side of Gwen that few people saw. She would have been perfectly right to berate Mary if the young nurse had been mistaken enough to set off on her rounds without a properly stocked bag. Every district nurse relied upon this most vital piece of equipment, which contained everything she might need when visiting a patient’s house. It was no exaggeration to say that lives depended on it.
‘You’re up early.’
Edith turned around at the sound of a chair scraping beside her, and looked up into the steady blue eyes of her best friend, Alice Lake, who lowered her tall frame to sit at the vacant place at the table.
‘Couldn’t sleep for ages and then I woke up before the alarm,’ Edith admitted.
Alice nodded in sympathy as she set down her bowl of porridge. ‘Again,’ she said.
Edith shrugged. Alice was the only nurse who knew about her dreaded moments when she awoke thinking Harry was still alive and then remembered that he wasn’t. Yet she was getting better. At first the realisation would make her feel so sick that she couldn’t face breakfast, and would end up shaking with exhaustion by the end of her morning rounds. Now she could manage some toast and set off with something like her old energy, because she knew that neither Harry nor the rest of his family, who lived nearby, would have wanted her to fail in her chosen profession.
‘Who’s your first patient?’ Alice asked, knowing that the best way to help Edith was to concentrate on work.
‘Dennis,’ Edith replied. He was one of their favourites, a teenager with a tubercular hip who required regular visits, and whose life was one of discomfort at best, but who never complained. ‘He’s been pretty bright recently, and Dr Patcham thinks we might even be able to try him walking for short periods with crutches. I don’t want to rush him though. His leg muscles are wasted from lying in bed for so long.’
Alice beamed at the idea. ‘Imagine how happy his mother would be. I know she thought her son would never walk again.’
Edith agreed. ‘It would be a small miracle – but don’t tell anyone or it might jinx it. Anyway, I’d better go.’
‘Give them my best and tell them I’ll see them soon,’ Alice called, raising her teacup as Edith departed.
The sunlight flooded the corridor of the big old Victorian house as Edith strode along it, to pick up her own bag before setting off on her bicycle for the day. It was true that there was finally a ray of hope for young Dennis, and it was moments like that which had led her to do this job in the first place. There was a long way to go for him, and he might always have a limp; everything would be easier if he could leave his crowded street and move to somewhere with fresh air, but she might as well recommend him to fly to the moon. Besides, even the countryside was open to attack; areas around airfields had started to see enemy planes overhead and nowhere was guaranteed to be safe.
‘So you aren’t missing much, Harry Banham,’ she murmured to herself, carefully wedging the bulging leather bag into the bicycle basket. She knew she didn’t mean it, though. She would have given anything for him to be back with her, laughing with his friends, joking with his family, throwing his beloved little niece into the air and catching her before his mother could tell him off. She shook her head, and automatically checked that her dark wavy hair was secure under her cap. It was no use; he was gone, and she had work to do.
‘Gillian! No, put it down.’ Mattie Askew, nee Banham, pushed herself to her feet and padded on swollen ankles across the family kitchen to try to stop her daughter from pulling a china bowl off the low shelf where it shouldn’t have been in the first place. ‘Ma, stop her, I’m too slow.’
Flo Banham swung around from where she was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink and in one swift movement rescued the bowl with one hand and caught her granddaughter with the other, lifting her up and holding her so their eyes were level. ‘No you don’t, my girl,’ she said lovingly but firmly. ‘You know that’s not a toy. Heaven knows you’ve got enough of those, so when I put you down, you’re to play with them and not with my china.’
Gillian roared with laughter and tapped her grandmother’s nose.
‘Don’t you try and get around me like that.’ Flo put the little girl back on the mat and wiped her hands on her faded and threadbare apron. ‘Oh, she’s got a surprise coming. Just wait until her baby brother or sister arrives.’
Mattie groaned and rubbed her growing bump. ‘Can’t come soon enough for me. Whatever was I thinking of, carrying a baby through the heat of summer. We’ll both melt before it’s due. Nearly three more months! I don’t think I can do it.’
Flo tutted. ‘Of course you will. That’s Lennie’s child you’ve got there, and you owe it to him to bring it safely into the world.’
Mattie rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t have to remind me. As if I’d forget.’ Her husband Lennie had been taken prisoner at Dunkirk, only weeks after she’d written to him to say he was going to be a father for the second time. He’d been beside himself with joy at the news, and it was knowing that which kept her going. That and caring for their firstborn: Gillian, now nearly eighteen months old, and growing better at walking and talking every day. The toddler assumed, quite rightly, that she was the centre of everyone’s attention, and wasn’t old enough to miss the people who should have been there: her father and her doting Uncle Harry.
The third missing face belonged to Mattie’s older brother, Joe, who was in the navy. Nobody knew exactly where he was or what he was doing, as letters arrived home in no regular pattern, depending on if and when he was in port. He was a master at writing long, funny, affectionate letters without actually telling them anything. She looked forward to them, as they were as entertaining as reading a real book. Lennie, even Mattie would be first to admit, wasn’t a great one for letters, but he had managed to send one from his prison camp to assure everyone back home that he was alive and as well as possible. Mattie had already sent off one parcel via the Red Cross to make his stay more bearable.
Mattie sank back down onto the comfy chair, keeping a close eye on Gillian, who had found her teddy bear which had rolled under the kitchen table. Then came a gentle waft of welcome cool air as the door to the back kitchen opened and Stan Banham strode in. He was an imposing figure, tall and straight-backed, although his face had grown etched with new lines ever since the news had come through about Harry. He was the local trusted Air Raid Precautions warden, as well as working full time, and Mattie knew that whatever happened, her father would be there to make everything better. He was the rock on whom they all depended. She struggled to her feet. ‘Fancy some tea?’ she asked as brightly as she could, despite the heavy weight of the growing baby.
Stan smiled at his only daughter and then at his granddaughter, who ducked out from beneath the table and held her arms up, demanding a cuddle. Stan obliged. ‘No, you sit yourself down, I’ll just have a glass of water to cool off,’ he said, tousling Gillian’s fine brown hair before gently putting her down again. ‘It’s warm out there. The heat will have died down before I go out on my rounds; that’s something to be thankful for.’
Flo looked at him. ‘Well, that’s good,’ she said slowly. ‘Have you heard anything more today? About what’s going on? Down the market there are all sorts of rumours. Some say Hitler’s just waiting to pounce, that he’s got all his tanks lined up on the French coast.’
Stan