The Nurse's War
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The atmosphere was already thick and the noise intense. The trains would continue running until eleven o’clock that night and their constant rumble melded with the clatter of people shifting possessions, calming children, nursing babies, chattering over thermos flasks. One or two noisy disputes temporarily topped the ceaseless buzz, people quarrelling over what cramped space there was left. She tried to pick her way through to a small area she’d spied at the very end of the platform. It was a mere postage stamp of a space, but, with luck, she might find fresh air funnelled from the surface. Inching forward, trying to keep her feet, she hardly noticed the people she moved through. They were simply bodies to negotiate, elbows to avoid, legs not to stumble against. She was concentrating so hard that it came as pure shock when she felt herself pushed forcibly to one side. A man, her mind told her in the instant before she felt herself losing balance, it was a man who’d pushed her. She teetered dangerously on the edge of the platform, hovering for a moment in the air above the live rail. Then, out of nowhere, a pair of strong hands took hold of her arms and held her tightly. There was a voice from what seemed a long way away, but she could make no sense of it.
‘Daisy?’ it questioned. Then, ‘It was you!’
She was finding it difficult to understand what had just happened. The push had almost certainly been deliberate, but why? And who had done it? There had barely been time to register a face—a blurred outline only. Now she felt herself being steadied and looked up into a pair of deep blue eyes, eyes that she knew well.
‘It was you at my office?’ he asked, and this time his question needed an answer.
She drew a deep breath before she said, ‘Yes.’ The mysterious attacker was forgotten. It was almost a relief to own up to her visit.
‘On a matter of national importance?’
The crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the familiar wide smile encouraged confession. She felt oddly light as the tension trickled away. ‘I’m afraid I lied. How did you know it was me?’
‘Miss Strachan gave me a detailed description. You made an impression on her.’
Miss Strachan had not been slow in making her own impression, Daisy thought, but perhaps now wasn’t the time to mention it.
‘She said you appeared agitated and hadn’t wanted to wait. It takes some time to come from the fifth floor, you know. I was on my way.’ His tone was only slightly reproving.
‘It wasn’t that. I would have waited, but … I couldn’t go through with it.’ The words came out in a rush, ill suited and too dramatic.
‘Is calling on an old friend such an ordeal?’
He made it sound so easy and she wished it were. She reached up to push the damp curls from her face and her hand pulled at first one strand of hair and then another. ‘It didn’t feel right, that’s all. I was there under false pretences.’
He didn’t respond to this confession and his gaze remained steady. Then he took hold of her hand and, before she could protest, led her through the maze of family groups, towards the empty space she had spied earlier. ‘This is where you were making for, I think. We can talk here.’
Other people had been quick to spot the same refuge and it had now shrunk to even smaller proportions. They settled themselves as best they could, squashed against the furthermost corner of the tiling before it lost itself along the tunnel. She was uncomfortable, hemmed in on all sides, and swamped by his physical presence. She’d forgotten how cool and fresh his skin smelt. It was distracting at a time when she needed her wits about her.
‘So why the pretence?’
‘I had to see you and she—Miss Strachan—was insistent that I must have an appointment. But today is my only free day. I’m on duty for the rest of the week.’
‘It sounds as though it might be something of national importance after all.’
‘It’s a personal matter,’ she murmured. So personal that now she’d arrived at the moment the impossibility of conveying Gerald’s demand hit her with an unforeseen force. She felt her breath stutter and words go missing.
‘Tell me,’ he urged. His hand rested lightly on her forearm, a gesture of friendship, of solidarity. ‘You’ve braved meeting me again, so it must be serious.’
Daisy looked down at her hands and noticed they were clenching and unclenching. He must have noticed, too, and realised how hard this was for her.
‘It was about your work,’ she managed to say at last. At least that was true, but far too vague. It was the best she could do though.
‘My work?’
‘How is it going?’ She’d ducked the question she should be asking.
‘Fine.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s going fine.’ An uneasy silence opened between them and in her mind it filled the entire station, blotting out the chatter, the laughter, the raised voices.
‘Did I tell you I’d jumped horses?’ He was trying to fill the yawning gap and she was grateful. ‘Not exactly jumped,’ he continued, ‘more of a sideways manoeuvre.’
‘You said something about new colleagues, I think. I don’t remember the details.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. Anyway, I’m working for Special Operations now. What’s left of the SIS after last year’s split is still with the Foreign Office, but I got lucky.’
‘Why lucky?’
‘The SOE is far less demure—it can even be a tad exciting. The Foreign Office seems positively staid by comparison.’
She’d always felt that Grayson was cut out for adventure, and it looked as though he’d finally found it. His masquerade as a district officer in Jasirapur had never quite rung true.
‘What do you do there?’
‘Guerilla stuff—getting operations going in occupied countries. Or at least, we try to.’
She forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying but her mind refused to obey. Somehow she was having to hold one kind of conversation, while at the same time working to escape the one that really mattered. And, all the time, she was conscious of his warmth infiltrating the length of her body.
In a daze she heard herself say, ‘But I thought your work was with India.’
‘It is. SOE is divided up, each section assigned to a single country and naturally I got to join the Indian sector. We set up the India Mission late last year. It’s too distant for London to control directly but I’m the liaison officer.’
‘And that’s exciting?’
‘By proxy. We’re building local resistance, helping groups in Japanese occupied territory. The station’s due to move to Ceylon, to be closer to South-east Asia Command, but I’ll still be the liaison.’ He paused for a moment and then with a slight awkwardness, ‘Here, I’m rambling on far too long. You can’t possibly be interested in all of this. Tell me, how’s the training going?’
Her ploy appeared to have worked. In his enthusiasm, he’d forgotten the urgent matter she wanted to discuss. She was being a coward, she knew, but with luck, the all-clear would sound before he remembered it. And if she could talk about her own work as engagingly, it might distract him a while longer.
‘The training’s going well. Studying isn’t always easy, especially after a long day or night on the wards. But since I passed the Preliminary Exam, it’s been better. I’m trusted now with quite difficult procedures, though I don’t escape the drudgery—and bedpans are beginning to lose their allure.’
She gave a rare smile and he smiled back. ‘Only beginning! But you must be gaining an immense amount of experience. And once the war is over, you’ll find that invaluable. I can see you making matron in no time.’
She didn’t reply, but felt his eyes resting on her, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. ‘Sorry, that sounded callous. I can imagine the experience has come at a price. Some of your days must be very distressing.’
She felt herself being tugged towards his sympathy. Don’t look at him, she told herself, don’t look into his face, into his eyes. She must not allow old feelings to surface. Not when they could be dashed at any moment, severed absolutely, if she was forced to admit the outrageous request she had come with.
‘Some of the work is painful,’ she agreed. ‘Barts still operates as a casualty clearing station and the stream of bomb victims is pretty constant. But you’re right. With local emergencies as well, the nursing is intensive, particularly as we’ve only a skeleton staff. Most of the nurses have been sent to Hill End but I’ve been lucky. I was one of the few asked to stay in London.’
‘And when the war ends, where to?’
He seemed as eager as she to keep the conversation going, so she obliged. ‘I should be an SRN by then. I think I’d like to specialise in surgical nursing. I actually made it into the theatre the other day. One of the third year nurses had to go home—her mother is extremely ill—and I took her place. Operations are done in the basement now. They’ve moved all the linen, but it’s still quite cramped. I found it so interesting, though, that I forgot how hot and crowded it was.’
He nodded almost absently and she felt his eyes fix anew on her face. He was thinking and that was dangerous. He was trying to read her, she could see. He hadn’t forgotten the urgent mission she’d come on after all, and she couldn’t imagine why she’d thought he would. He was an intelligence officer, wasn’t he? It was his job to get to the bottom of things. She strained her ears; the all-clear was a long time coming, but it could still save her. If it sounded, she would say a swift goodbye and tell Gerald that she’d met Grayson as he’d asked, and had done her best to persuade, but without success. It was a lie, but then how many times had her husband lied to her?
She crossed and uncrossed her legs, then glanced down at her watch. The second hand seemed hardly to have moved. Time was slowing down and she felt trapped. The people immediately around her had begun to settle themselves more securely. They must have decided the raid would be protracted or simply one among a series and resigned themselves to spending most of the night away from home. Limbs were spread more widely, shoes removed, coats bunched as pillows or tucked into the body as protection from the ferocious draughts that sailed in from either side of the tunnel.
Grayson watched these preparations with an indifferent eye, but when he turned back to her, his gaze was sharp and the quiet voice had become unyielding. ‘It’s been good to catch up with each other’s lives, Daisy, but I don’t think you came all the way from the City on your one free day to talk about my work or yours. What’s going on?’
There was to be no escape then. When she dared look at him, she felt her eyes drawn to his and saw determination there, but kindness too, and something a good deal deeper and warmer. What she had to say would anger him for sure. It might even hurt him and that was the last thing she wanted. But the confusion, the wretchedness she’d felt these past few days had reached a crescendo and, in a moment, it had toppled and burst through the flimsy defence she had built.
‘Gerald is alive,’ she blurted out.
CHAPTER 5
She felt Grayson’s body tense against her, saw his face become stone.
‘Gerald is alive,’ she repeated. She still hardly believed it herself.
‘Gerald? Gerald Mortimer?’ His bark of laughter was ugly, forced.
‘Yes. Gerald—my husband.’
‘But that’s crazy. Why on earth would you think that?’
‘I don’t think it, I know. He’s here in London. He came to see me.’ It was getting easier now. Her breath was still catching, but she was managing to put one word after another.
Grayson wasn’t so adept. ‘But … But how can he be?’ he stuttered.
‘He didn’t drown. He was rescued by villagers downstream.’
‘That’s impossible. The river that day … you saw the river, Daisy. You stood on its brink. No one could have survived that torrent.’
‘He did,’ she said flatly. ‘Somehow he managed to hang on to wreckage from one of the festival floats. He was pushed into the bank some miles from Jasirapur, and the villagers found him and looked after him until his injuries were mended. Then he made his way back to England.’
‘Just like that.’ Grayson still seemed stunned, but there was a sour edge to his voice.
‘I don’t think it was quite that easy. He hasn’t told me much about the journey except that it took months. He begged his way out of India, and then through Turkey and across Europe. He found a job in France, but then war was declared. And here he is.’
Grayson’s legs twitched. He looked as though he would give anything to jump to his feet and disappear down one of the tunnels. Instead, his hands harrowed through the brown sweep of his hair until it almost stood to attention. His mouth was tight and his forehead creased; beneath its rigid lines Daisy could see a whole encyclopedia of questions forming.
‘But why? Why come to England, why not return to Jasirapur?’
‘If he’d gone back, he would have been arrested. You would have arrested him.’
Grayson glared furiously at her, as though her remark was so self-evident it wasn’t worth uttering.
‘And he still can be arrested,’ he was keen to remind her. ‘The Indian Army will want a court martial for certain. He’s brought dishonour on his regiment. But he’s also guilty of a criminal act. He should stand trial for theft, even treason.’
Daisy nodded dumbly. He was not saying anything she’d not already told herself a thousand times.
‘And now, of course, he can add desertion to the charge sheet.’ Grayson was angry, very angry. ‘Not to mention his treatment of you.’
‘He did try to save my life,’ she said in a small voice. ‘You once reminded me of that.’
‘That was when I thought he was dead.’ His voice was savage. ‘What possessed him to desert? Couldn’t he for once have acted like a man, owned up to his crimes, taken his punishment? Evidently not.’
She didn’t know whether he was consumed by fury at Gerald’s criminal follies, or whether it was simple jealousy of the man who’d returned to claim his wife. But, whatever the reason, he couldn’t be much angrier. Why not then take her chance?
She made a soft clearing sound in her throat. ‘It’s why I’ve come to you.’
‘You want my advice on how to live with a deserter?’ His voice had lost none of its sting.
‘No, yes. I want your help, Grayson. You’re the only one who can help me. Gerald wants to go to a neutral country, to America where he’ll be safe.’
‘I bet he does. Tell him to apply through the usual channels.’
‘You know he can’t do that. He’d be arrested immediately.’
‘And I should care?’
‘I don’t expect you to care. But I do. He’s a soldier guilty of theft and desertion at a time when his country is struggling to survive. Think what my life will be like if my husband is tried for those crimes. And worse, if he’s tried for treason.’
‘It wouldn’t be comfortable,’ he conceded. ‘But who knows, Gerald might get himself out of England and there’d be no problem. He’s weasel enough. And no doubt you’ll accompany him to whatever Shangri-La he has in mind. England could fade to a distant nightmare for you.’ He turned his body away from her, his jaw a hard outline against the fluorescent glow of the station lighting.
‘I don’t want him anywhere near me.’
The words formed themselves without effort. They were heartfelt and true. What she wanted most of all was a clean break, just as Connie had suggested. The realisation had been slow to come. Since Gerald reappeared, she’d been tormenting herself on what she should do, how she should feel, and it had been time wasted. Why had she clouded what was so beautifully clear? From the beginning, she had been unhappy in her marriage and it had gone from bad to worse—and now worse still. She had to cut herself free and if Gerald made it to America, she would be. She would never need to see him again.
Grayson turned towards her as she spoke, his figure no longer frighteningly stiff. He reached across and took her hand in his, and for some time they sat silent and unmoving. Then he gave her hand a squeeze. ‘The sooner he goes, the better, Daisy. You’ve suffered enough from him and you mustn’t be dragged into his murky little world again. How dare he even try.’
‘I think he came to me out of desperation. He’s no one else to turn to. When I first met him, he seemed the same old Gerald, but underneath I believe he’s scared. Really scared.’
‘With good reason. The army usually get their man, even if SIS have too much going on to be interested in him any longer.’
‘He’s convinced that someone is going to report him to the authorities.’
Grayson gave a low mutter. ‘Who exactly? Who even knows he’s in London? You won’t bring it out in the open and neither will I, though by rights I should summon the Military Police immediately. I’m sure they’d be more than a little interested in Lieutenant Mortimer.’
‘He’s no longer Mortimer. He’s reverted to being Jack Minns.’
‘Ah, Jack Minns. That sounds about right—returning to the person he really is. He was such a little shit at Hanbury, I should have known what his future would be.’
She had never heard Grayson swear before and her face must have signalled her dismay.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to distress you, but he’s despicable. I wish you’d never met him. He’s brought you nothing but ill fortune.’
She couldn’t disagree. She wished with all her heart that when Gerald had walked into Bridges that day to buy perfume for another woman, one of her disdainful colleagues had stepped forward to serve him. Instead, the job had fallen to her and the moment she’d smiled across the counter at him, her fate had been decided. Was still being decided. And would continue to be decided until she found a way to get Gerald across the Atlantic Ocean. A renewed sense of weariness rolled over her. Confessing her mission to Grayson had taken a toll, and in the end it had been for nothing. He was sympathetic to her, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t help Gerald. He was too angry even to consider the possibility. Her husband would stay in London, a tormenting presence, a time bomb primed to explode at any moment and ruin the small success she’d made of her life.
But should she make a last effort to persuade? ‘Gerald thinks he’s being spied on by the men in the flat below. He’s sure they mean him ill, and he seems more scared of them than of the Military Police.’
‘Scared because he thinks they’re spies?’
She saw Grayson’s smile hover on the edge of sardonic. Then the faintest wail came to them, travelling through and around the hallways, the staircases, the tunnels. At last, the all-clear. A number of people were staggering to their feet, methodically beginning to pack away blankets and pillows and crockery. But the majority of those camped on the platform made no move to leave. It might be better to stay the whole night, she thought, particularly if there were further raids. Who would want to journey back and forth from house to shelter when they could be snatching a few hours’ sleep. Perhaps, too, the solid tunnel walls, the cocoon of blankets, helped to blot out an unwelcome reality, the ever-present fear that there might be nowhere to go back to.
Grayson was already up and pulling her to her feet. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back to Barts.’
She had no chance to refuse. He was heading for the exit and towing her behind him, and she could say nothing until the crowded escalator delivered them into the station foyer and from there out into the cold crisp air of an early April evening. They stood together in the darkened street and listened. The all-clear had faded to nothing and the traffic was stilled. There was no drone of planes to disturb the quiet, no roar of the guns that sought them. It was as though a mighty orchestra—planes, guns, sirens—had fallen silent. But not before they’d left behind an indelible imprint: whichever way she looked, the sky was aglow with light, a sweep of glowering fire.
She wriggled her hand free; it was time to regain control. ‘There’s really no need to walk me back, Grayson. It will take you out of your way.’
‘Only a very little. Or had you forgotten that my flat’s in Finsbury?’
She was surprised. ‘You’re still in Spence’s Road?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? Did you think I’d moved back to Pimlico to be with Mummy?’ The mocking note made her smile slightly. He adored his parent but had always been careful to keep his independence.
‘I just wondered. People’s circumstances change so quickly these days.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I haven’t seen you for nine months. You might have got married in the meantime.’ She was grateful for the surrounding dark. He wouldn’t have noticed the flush she’d been unable to prevent.
‘Not guilty. You did a good job on me.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Then don’t try to work it out. I’ve said enough if I tell you the girls I’ve knocked around with these months since you cut me adrift have been just that—girls to knock around with.’
She felt a perverse flood of pleasure. She’d told him to go his own way, hadn’t she, and now she was feeling glad that he hadn’t.
‘So to Barts?’ He offered her his arm.
‘To Charterhouse Square. I don’t have to work this evening.’
They moved off slowly, taking care to avoid the shrouded figures continuing to emerge from the station foyer.
‘So tell me about the evil spies who live below Gerald’s floorboards.’
She couldn’t blame him for not taking it seriously. She found it difficult to accept herself. It was only the fact that Gerald was the least likely person to be haunted by imaginary fears that made her give any credence to what sounded preposterous.
‘You do know that everyone sees spies these days.’ Grayson was enjoying himself. ‘Since the Germans have been camped on the French coast with invasion likely, hysteria has reached danger level. Everyone suspects and everyone is under suspicion. Only last month some poor, benighted foreigner in Kensington was accused of making signals to enemy bombers by smoking a cigar in a strange manner. Apparently, he puffed rather too hard and pointed the cigar towards the sky.’
‘I don’t think Gerald’s spies come into that category.’ Why she was defending her husband’s paranoia she had no idea, except that some deep instinct told her that he could be right.
‘We get hundreds of reports of suspected Fifth Columnists, you know,’ Grayson was saying. ‘Strange marks daubed on telegraph poles, nuns with hairy arms and Hitler tattoos, municipal flowerbeds planted with white flowers to direct planes towards munitions factories. And so on. But in reality there are virtually no enemy agents here.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Let’s just say the Germans don’t have an effective intelligence operation in Britain. Spies should be the least of Gerald’s—sorry, Jack’s—worries.’
‘They’re not Germans. They’re Indians. He heard them speak in Hindi.’
For a moment, Grayson paused in their slow walk. She couldn’t see his face but she was sure it wore an arrested expression. ‘Does that mean something to you?’ she prompted.
‘Not necessarily. But it’s unusual to find two Indians sheltering in the middle of London with a war raging. And particularly unusual at a time like this.’
‘What’s special about now?’
‘You won’t know, but India has recently surfaced again as a hot topic among the great and the good. Germany has been hinting it will guarantee Indian independence if the country doesn’t join us in the fight, and Italy and Japan are likely to take the same view. It’s only a matter of time, I think, before the Axis offer some kind of formal pact to our jewel in the crown.’
‘But isn’t the Indian Army fighting alongside us?’
‘The Indian Army is magnificent, but we’re desperate for men. The war has spread halfway round the world. We need more Indians to volunteer for the fight, just as they did in the Great War. Germany tried to stir up Indian nationalism then, as a way of causing trouble, but now we have Congress to contend with. So far they’ve refused to co-operate unless we pay their political price—independence—and that’s been rejected outright.’