Nell felt sure she had, but cared nothing for this, and quickly read on, a pulse thrumming her neck. ‘– they were private between you and my son, and must remain so. You shall have them back if you wish. Billy did say that your parents wouldn’t approve of you going out with anyone, you being so young. But he was willing to wait. And he said you felt the same. That’s why I thought I should let you know the circumstances of his passing …’
Visualising the writer taking a deep breath in preparation of having to pen the following lines, Nell took one too, trying to fight the impulse to vomit, as the walls and all their bizarre contents seemed to press in on her, her hands trembling even more.
‘Even though it must be awfully sad for you to read, you will surely want to know why he suddenly disappeared from your life. We’d suffered a night of terrible bombing. I can’t describe how bad it was to you. Billy and other soldiers were sent out to help with the rescue. There were lots of people trapped under fallen buildings, and Billy crawled in amongst the rubble trying to locate a child whom he could hear crying. The walls collapsed, and my boy was killed instantly, along with a good few of his friends. I can’t tell you how my heart still breaks. I still keep expecting to see his smiling face appear round the door and saying, “Wotcher, Mum!” Life will never be the same without him. I fear I shall never get over it. But that’s as it should be, I’m his mother. It’s different for you, you’re still a girl, and Billy wouldn’t want you to be miserable. I know you’ll be terribly sad on reading this, but after you’ve had a good cry you must try to get on with your life …’ Nell broke down and sobbed noisily into her lap, unable to bear any more.
The Preciouses were immediately there with words of comfort, but Nell could take comfort in nothing, and merely sat weeping in the presence of talking heads.
‘She sent us a nice letter too, didn’t she, Georgie?’ Ma lowered her volume to fit the occasion, though it was less than gentle on the ear. ‘Thanked us for looking after him – I wrote straight back and told her we don’t need thanking, he was a pleasure to have, just like a son.’
His kind old face twisted in concern for the still-weeping Nell, Georgie asked tentative permission of his wife: ‘Shall I bring her it, do you think, dearie?’ And at her nod, he trotted from the room.
Shocked to the core, feeling ready to faint, Nell barely noticed him go, nor return, until a wristwatch was held under her nose.
Georgie gave gentle explanation as the watch was transferred from his gnarled old fingers, their nails split and stained with oil, into Nell’s young and chapped ones. ‘It’s Bill’s. I’ve had it in my workshop since he went. I didn’t have time to fix it then, so he left it with me. I did try, but my fingers aren’t as nimble as they used to be, I’m afraid, nor my eyes as good. A watchmaker would have no trouble, though. Anyway, we thought you might like it …’
Touched, but even more heartbroken, the tears streaming down her face, a shuddering Nell pressed the watch between her hands, unable to thank him.
‘It’s not much of a legacy for a hero, is it?’ submitted Ma with a heavy sigh.
And Nell sobbed again.
It was impossible, of course, to hide such deep grief from her parents.
‘Eleanor, whatever’s the matter?’ Thelma had been sitting in the firelight with her husband, listening to the nine o’clock news, but now put down her knitting and came hurrying to comfort her daughter, who had burst into tears at the moment of entry, her face already blotched and puffy from its previous onslaught. ‘Has something horrible occurred at work? We were worried when you were so late –’
Nell shook her head vigorously, spattering her coat with tears and mucus, trying to make herself stop crying in order that she might explain, but the moment she thought of Bill, she broke down again.
Wilfred Spottiswood turned off the wireless, sufficiently affected by his daughter’s distress to curtail the report of British exploits in the Western Desert. But he hung back, not knowing how to handle it, and so leaving it to her mother.
Finally, Nell was able to blurt in a shaky voice, ‘A very dear friend of mine was killed.’ It was all she could utter before dissolving again.
‘Today?’ Despite trying to commiserate, Thelma could not help questioning her daughter’s facts. ‘But there’ve been no raids.’
‘Not here,’ Nell managed to gasp. ‘London. Someone just told me.’
‘Oh, how horrible for you. Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.’ Issuing murmur of comfort, Thelma began to undo Nell’s coat, helping the deranged girl to take it off, then drawing her to the fire. ‘Come along and sit here, I’ve kept some cottage pie warm in the oven, you can have it on your lap just for tonight.’
The thought of this almost made Nell retch. ‘Mother, I couldn’t eat it!’
‘No, of course not …’ Thelma came back through the firelight to sit beside her daughter, wringing her hands and saying thoughtfully, ‘She must have been a very dear friend for you to be so upset.’
Nell nodded through a blur of tears.
‘How did –’
‘Leave the girl alone!’ Wilfred jumped in impatiently. ‘You’re making her worse by all these questions.’
‘Yes, yes, how thoughtless of me.’ Nell’s mother took issue with herself. ‘Maybe you’d just like to go to bed, dear?’
Nell required no further invitation to escape, and bolted for the darkness of the staircase. ‘I’ll fetch you a mug of Ovaltine with some aspirin, it’ll help you sleep,’ came the soothing addition from her mother. ‘I am very sorry, dear. We both are.’
Beneath the surface of her fitful sleep, her brain still reeling with visions good and bad, surrendering both to impulse and exhaustion, Nell chose to remain in bed the following morning. Lashing out to end the alarm clock’s violent demands, she pulled the sheets and blankets up over her head, and tried to gain oblivion. But as her hand slipped beneath the pillow it encountered Bill’s watch, and the tears came again. Forever seven o’clock – oh, would that it were, yearned Nell, as her mind replayed the scene that had led to this perpetuity. And to worsen her grief was the thought that poor Bill had died not knowing that he was to be a father.
A series of respectful taps came at the door. ‘You’re going to be late, dear.’
Nell crammed a fistful of pillow around each ear. ‘I’m sick.’ It was not pretence. This malaise felt as real as any bodily affliction.
But, ‘Lying there moping won’t take your mind off your bad news,’ persisted Thelma, peering in for a moment. Not one for hugs, she tried to comfort her daughter in the only way she could: with advice. ‘It might make you feel better if you throw yourself into your work – that’s what I always do when I’m a bit sad. Besides, it’s not very responsible to let the hospital down, is it?’
And ultimately, left alone, Nell was to see the truth in this, and to drag herself from the sparse comfort offered by the bed. After pondering one last time over Billy’s watch, through eyes that contained a ton of grit under each lid, she pressed it with a tender kiss, then hid it in the same place as his photograph and letters, in a hatbox, under the boater she had worn at school. And there they must remain from now on, came Nell’s miserable decision, as she donned her nurse’s uniform. For only in hard work could she hope to bury