‘I can’t see her doing much to cheer up our chaps,’ George had protested.
‘She can be fun, and she is very pretty,’ Sally had defended her decision and her fellow lodger, but in her heart she knew that George was probably right, especially if Dulcie continued in the mood she was in right now.
They were sharing their carriage with a pale, thin young woman with an anxious expression, who was dressed in what were obviously good quality although rather dull-looking clothes and who was sitting primly in her seat with a shopping basket on her knee covered with a white cloth that now had several smoke smuts on it from the open window. The window had been opened by a young boy travelling with his mother, who was having to give more attention to her baby than her infant son. An older respectable-looking couple, occupying the remaining seats, exchanged speaking looks at the little boy’s boisterous behaviour.
‘Oh, you’re going to East Grinstead as well, are you?’ the young mother asked, looking relieved. ‘Going to the hospital, are you?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Only this is my first time. My Lance got took there after his plane was shot down. Got burned, he did, according to what I’ve been told, but they say that he’s going to be all right. First time I’ve been able to visit him, this is, what with the kiddies.’
Sally’s sympathy was immediately aroused. Having seen the patients at the hospital, she knew the terrible injuries most of them had suffered. At the hospital they received the very best, not just of medical care but, thanks to Mr Archibald MacIndoe’s innovative method of treating his patients, of emotional and psychological care as well. For the families at home, though, there was very little support, and even her one brief visit had been enough to show Sally how badly affected many of the relatives were by the injuries suffered by their loved ones.
‘This is your first visit to your husband then?’ she double-checked.
‘Yes. Yes. Brought the kiddies with me ’cos I ain’t got no one to keep an eye on them. Besides, Lance hasn’t even seen the baby yet.’
Dulcie gave Sally a cross look. Why she was getting involved with this badly dressed woman with her runny-nosed children Dulcie did not know. She stuck her own nose up in the air to signal that she wasn’t going to follow suit. And as for that dim-looking girl seated opposite her, with her basket on her knee, she smelled of mothballs and looked like she was wearing something more suited to her grandmother, Dulcie thought unkindly.
‘We’re going to the hospital as well,’ the man joined the conversation.
‘Our son’s a patient there,’ added his wife. Her hand trembled as it rested on his arm, Sally saw.
‘Mr MacIndoe is very pleased with his progress so far. He’s having skin grafts. It’s a long process and Bryan gets impatient.’
‘That’s a good sign that he must be starting to heal,’ Sally offered gently, before explaining, ‘I’m a nurse. My … my boyfriend is a doctor at the hospital.’
She didn’t normally disclose that kind of information – the minute you said you were in the medical profession people always wanted to discuss symptoms and operations with you – but on this occasion she knew that she would feel uncomfortable listening to harrowing tales of awful injuries from people who might assume that she was ‘one of them’ when she wasn’t.
‘Yes. We’re going down there to a dance,’ Dulcie chipped in, suddenly realising that she was being excluded from the conversation. Dulcie did not like being excluded from anything.
‘It’s for the patients,’ Sally felt bound to explain hastily when she saw the pained look on the older couple’s faces. ‘As you know, Mr MacIndoe believes that it is very important to get his patients as involved with normal everyday life as he can, even whilst they are still having treatment.’
‘Yes,’ the girl with the basket unexpectedly spoke up, her cut-glass accent making Dulcie bridle slightly. ‘They’ve begun to call East Grinstead “the town that doesn’t look away”.’
‘You’re visiting someone yourself?’ the young mother asked.
‘Yes. My … my brother.’
‘Well, since we’re all travelling to the same place,’ Sally said with a smile, ‘perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Sally, and this is Dulcie,’ she announced promptly, extending her hand to each of the others in turn.
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ the young mother replied. ‘I’m Joyce, and that’s William over there, and this here is Pauline.’
‘Edna and Harold Chambers,’ the male half of the elderly couple introduced them.
‘Persephone Stanton,’ the other girl included herself, in her very upper-class accent.
A faint wash of pink brightened her pale face when Dulcie demanded, ‘Persephone? What kind of a name is that?’
‘It’s Greek,’ she explained. ‘Daddy is a Greek scholar.’
Thankfully, before Dulcie could put her foot in it again, Joyce called out wearily to her little boy, ‘William, don’t keep on touching them windows. I keep telling you they’re dirty.’
‘But I like touching them,’ the little boy protested, ‘and there’s nothing else to do.’
Opening her bag, Sally delved into it for the pencil and notepad she always carried with her, tearing out a sheet of paper and handing it to the boy with the pencil and a smile as she suggested, ‘Why don’t you count how many houses you can see from the window, William?’ her kindness earning her a grateful look from Joyce, who told her in a confiding undertone, ‘He’s such a handful at the moment. He’s only at school in the mornings, see, on account of his proper school being bombed. Running wild all over the place, he is, with a gang of older boys. I’ve warned him that he’ll get himself into trouble and then where will we be? Of course I can’t say anything to his dad, not wanting to worry him.’
‘Haven’t you got any family who could help?’ Sally asked her sympathetically.
‘Not really. I’m from the north but I’ve moved down to London ’cos it’s easier to get to the hospital but I don’t really know anyone there yet.’
‘A boy that age needs a man around to teach him his manners,’ Harold Chambers announced firmly. ‘Need a bit of strong handling, young boys do.’
Seeing the stubborn look crossing the little boy’s face and the anxious guilt on his mother’s, Sally stepped in hastily, asking the first thing that came into her head in an effort to change the direction of the conversation.
‘How old is your little girl?’
‘Pauline. She’s nine months. Born in May, she was.’
May. The same time as her half-sister. Pain spiked through Sally, catching her off guard. Normally she refused even to think about her half-sister, even to acknowledge within her own thoughts that she existed. Nine months old. That meant that she would have had nine months of love from Sally’s own father that she had had no right to have at all.
Sally shivered and turned towards the window.
‘So where are we going then?’ Tilly asked Drew, as they left the house arm in arm.
‘I’m not telling you until we get there. It’s a surprise,’ Drew insisted. ‘Oh, damn!’ he exclaimed ruefully. ‘I’ve gone and left part of your surprise on the kitchen table at Ian’s. We’ll have to call in there and get it.’