The Nurse's War Read online

  ‘You’ve changed, you know. You’ve become a hard woman.’

  ‘Because I can’t help you? You’re being foolish.’ She looked away from him. ‘If I have changed,’ she said slowly, ‘it can only be a good thing. At least for me. It means that for the first time in my life, I’m strong enough to defend myself.’

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable, but it didn’t stop him from worrying at her.

  ‘Grayson Harte was never a district officer in India, was he? I knew from the first he was an imposter. I told you so, didn’t I?’

  She said nothing, wondering why he should alight on Grayson’s name again. She wasn’t left in ignorance long.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ He stretched his long legs and relaxed back into the canvas sling. ‘The district officer role was just a blind. Harte was in Secret Intelligence, wasn’t he? Most of those beggars are working in London now, I’ll be bound. Harte may have had to stay in India for the gang’s trial, but he can’t be there still. He’s almost certainly close by and if we’re talking influence, who better than an SIS officer to help me?’

  She swallowed hard. It was exactly what Connie had said, but she hadn’t wanted to listen to her and she didn’t want to listen to Gerald either. Contriving a meeting with Grayson was the last thing she’d expected to do, and the last thing she wanted.

  ‘Nothing to say? Harte always had a soft spot for you. Sweet on you, I thought at the time. And he proved your white knight in the end, didn’t he?’

  There was a new bitterness to his voice. Even now, she thought guiltily, even now that she had Gerald beside her, flesh and blood and alive, she hadn’t thanked him for his final act of heroism in trying to save her life. She should do it, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the words. Her sense of betrayal was just too great.

  ‘Who better to get me my papers?’ he taunted.

  ‘I don’t see Grayson.’

  ‘Now, I find that remarkable.’ He gave a smirk. ‘I thought he’d be a regular at the Nurses’ Home.’ She could have hit him but instead clenched her fists tightly. He looked down at her hands and the smirk grew. ‘What’s the matter? Didn’t it work out between you? That’s sad. But then comfort yourself with the thought that it wouldn’t have worked out anyway. You have a husband alive and Grayson is far too much of a gentleman to steal another man’s wife.’

  ‘I don’t see him,’ she repeated heavily.

  ‘But you could. If you chose.’ He leant over and took her hand. His touch was far gentler than she expected. Rhythmically, he stroked her forearm. She would have said it was a loving touch if she hadn’t known better. ‘And you could choose, Daisy.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Grayson Harte for months. We’ve gone our own ways.’

  ‘I’m sure you know where he works though.’ She didn’t answer and he took her silence as confirmation. ‘You could pay him a visit. Call on him for old times’ sake. Don’t mince your words—tell him your husband has reappeared and is an embarrassment, an embarrassment you’d like to get rid of. I’m sure he’ll find a way of obliging.’

  ‘I can’t turn up out of nowhere and demand papers for you. He’ll want to know why you’re here, how you got here. He’ll know you’ve deserted. What if he decides to turn you in?’

  ‘Dear Daisy, he won’t. Because, if he did, you would be implicated. You would be the wife of a deserter. Think how your nursing colleagues would react to that little piece of news, think what the hospital might do. About your job, for instance.’

  ‘You’re threatening my job?’

  ‘Not threatening, merely pointing out the salient facts—as a friend, of course. You really would be best to keep my unfortunate situation as quiet as possible, and Mr Harte will appreciate how necessary that is. He’s a master of discretion, I’m sure.’

  She was caught. She could feel the underlying menace in every one of his words. If he didn’t get papers, didn’t get money and a way out of England, he wouldn’t go quietly. If he were taken into custody, he would shout his story to the sky and it would spread like a fungus, inching its diseased path into every crevice of her life. Including her workplace. And the job she loved would be in ashes, another dream destroyed.

  ‘If I go to him and he refuses to help—even if he doesn’t inform the authorities you’re in London—will you leave me alone?’

  ‘He can’t refuse.’ Gerald’s tone was adamant. ‘He has to help. My situation is desperate. Spies are his forte, aren’t they, and I’m surrounded by them. I have to get out now.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Surrounded by spies?’

  ‘Yes, spies. I’m almost certain of it.’ She recalled the anxious scanning of the park before he’d consented to sit down. It seemed he believed what he was saying. ‘There’s something odd about the two men who rent the room below me. For a start they’re both Indians. Well, one is Indian, the other’s Anglo. I met the Indian chap on the landing one day and he said he was a soldier. I saw his cap, it had the badge of the Pioneer Corps pinned to it, so I reckon he was telling the truth. But why isn’t he with his regiment? And if he’s left the army, why hasn’t he returned to India? There has to be something going on, some reason they’re hanging around. They’re watching me, I’m sure. They must know I’ve deserted.’

  ‘How can they know?’ The claim seemed utterly absurd and she wondered if Gerald’s ordeal had affected his mind as well as his body.

  ‘If they don’t actually know, they suspect. Think about it. I’m an able-bodied man of twenty-eight, yet I’m not with any of the Services and I’m not engaged in essential war work.’

  ‘And are they? They might be deserters too.’

  He shook his head. ‘Deserters from what? The character from the Pioneers has a limp, so he’s unfit to fight. I know his unit was brought over from the Punjab to work on demolition. Clearing derelict buildings, that sort of thing. Some of them were skilled engineers. They’d need to be, using dynamite. He might have been one of them and suffered an accident. But that doesn’t explain why he hasn’t been put on a boat back to India. He’s not British and he shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘And the other man, the Anglo-Indian?’

  ‘Yes, what about him? What the hell is he doing in this country?’ Gerald’s voice rose and she could see panic bubbling beneath the surface. ‘Why hasn’t he been interned with everyone else, I ask you? Every foreigner, anyone who might assist the enemy, even the poor blighters who’ve escaped from Hitler, has been banged up.’

  ‘But why should these men be a threat to you?’ She hoped a quiet voice would calm him.

  ‘They are, I know they are.’

  She had never known her husband so agitated, not even in the dark days of mischief in India. His voice had risen even higher and Daisy saw the woman who had just rescued her child’s boat look up, perplexed by the sound.

  ‘They sent me a white feather. How about that? It was under my door this morning. You know what that says.’

  ‘Cowardice?’ She hardly dared say the word.

  ‘Precisely. They’re calling me a coward. The next step will be to denounce me to the authorities.’

  ‘But how do you know they were the ones who posted it? It could have been anyone in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘I can’t be entirely sure, but who else would it be? They’ve been watching me closely and they know my movements, know I don’t have a job. And that I’ve a connection with India. They speak to each other in Hindi and I accidentally let on I understood some of what they were saying. That must have made them even more suspicious.’

  She shook her head. Gerald was imagining a persecution she was certain didn’t exist. He had built a ridiculous story around two innocent men, interpreting their looks and actions in the worst possible way. It was because he was strung tight by the fear of discovery, she could see, and if he didn’t get away soon, he was going to do something very stupid. She had no alternative. She would have to try to help, even if it meant searching out Grayson a
nd braving a face-to-face meeting with him.

  ‘I’ll go to Baker Street. That’s where Mr Harte works. I’ll try to see him.’ There was only a slight quiver to her voice.

  ‘When?’ The question was urgent. Her promise had not been sufficient to calm him.

  ‘As soon as I have time off.’

  ‘Soon?’

  ‘Yes, soon.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I must go now. If I have any luck, I’ll send a message to the address you gave me.’

  ‘You’ve got to have luck.’ And his tone allowed for no other outcome.

  The meeting had been unsatisfactory. He wasn’t sure he could depend on her to go to Grayson Harte. He’d said she had changed and he’d been right. Not to look at. She was still as pretty, prettier if anything. She’d filled out since he’d last seen her, become more womanly. The dark eyes, the darker hair, the skin that in an English climate had regained its smooth creaminess, not quite peach, not quite olive, but soft and clear, still drew him. Was it any wonder he’d lost his head all those months ago in London. It had been a thoroughly boring leave, he remembered, and then he’d gone to buy perfume for the woman he’d decided to love, and there she’d been. Beautiful Daisy. He’d meant only to enjoy a few days with her, but the days had stretched into several weeks and, when he’d left to go back to India, he’d felt real regret. Although not that much regret, he supposed. He’d been looking forward to rejoining his regiment, getting back to the pleasures of life as a cavalry officer. Looking forward, too, to seeing Jocelyn Forester. He’d set his sights on winning the colonel’s daughter and was sure in time that she would reciprocate. The perfume was the first step in his campaign.

  But then those pleading letters from Daisy. A baby was coming, she had to marry. And what had that been all about? A miscarriage on-board ship, no baby and a marriage he didn’t want. He’d been angry and he hadn’t treated her well. He didn’t like to think of those days. He’d betrayed her, he knew, betrayed her for money, that’s what it came down to. He’d allowed Anish to talk him into a pit of evil. Just for money, just to pay the debts which terrified him. He’d had no idea that Daisy would prove so difficult, so obdurate, so intent on involving herself in what didn’t concern her. Until eventually she’d faced death. Even now he couldn’t believe that Anish had sanctioned such a thing. It was too awful to think about. He’d done his best to save her, but it had been Harte, the perfect district officer, who’d finally been her rescuer.

  No, he didn’t like to think of those days. She’d been a gentle girl when he met her, vulnerable and soft. Now, though, she seemed to have grown a shell and he could only hope that he’d managed to pierce it today. He wasn’t entirely convinced she would do as she’d promised. Something had happened between her and Grayson Harte which made her reluctant to meet the man. She had better though, he thought belligerently. He’d hated having to confess the hole he was in, having to abase himself by begging for help, but he’d had no choice. No choice either about holding a threat over her head. He could congratulate himself on that at least. He’d hit on the right thing—her job—he’d seen that immediately. The threat of having to leave nursing would make her do what he asked, whether she wanted to or not. It would get him the papers, if anything would.

  He trudged his way back through the West End and into the City, his feet aching and sore. There had been a big raid two nights ago and the roads were still badly damaged. He’d hardly seen a bus on his way to Hyde Park, but even if one had turned up, he couldn’t afford the fare. He could barely afford to eat and the small sum he’d saved from working in France was dwindling by the day. Look at his shoes—the soles almost falling off, the backs broken down. Dear God, what had he come to? A proud officer in a crack regiment of the Indian Army and now this, hiding away in a dingy, rat-infested room, and dependent on others for his deliverance.

  But then he’d always been dependent, hadn’t he? His whole career had rested on a father who’d sacrificed everything for his only son. An ungrateful son. And that was something else he didn’t want to think about. When he’d returned to England, Spitalfields was the first place he’d gone to. He’d had some wild idea that somehow he could reconcile himself with the parents he’d abandoned, the prodigal son returned, that kind of thing. An unspoken thought, too, that maybe his father could get him out of his predicament as he had so many others in the past, though what a poverty-stricken old man could do, he didn’t know. But when he’d rounded the corner of the street—the address had been at the top of the letter his father had sent, begging for money his son couldn’t spare—he’d been appalled. There was nothing, literally nothing. A whole street had disappeared.

  After two years of war, he thought, London smelt of death and destruction. Everywhere shattered windows, roofs caved in, water pipes, gas pipes, all fractured, telephone wires waving in the breeze. The people he passed were every bit as shabby as their city since new clothes were a rarity. Shabbier still in the East End where, for a pittance, he’d managed to rent a room. Street after street of mean little houses with open doors and broken windows; filthy alleys in which ragged children played, their pale, pinched faces speaking of years of deprivation before ever the German bombers arrived. And everywhere stank—of waste, of unwashed bodies, of stale beer.

  He was walking through the City now, past one ruined church after another, their steeples scorched and dis-coloured by fire. There was something heroic in their tragic silhouettes, he thought, heroic yet futile. They belonged to a past that no longer had meaning. It was the New World that promised, the New World that offered a future. In front of the Royal Exchange, an enormous hole in the road had still not been completely filled after the Bank station had been hit in January. So huge was it that the Royal Engineers had had to build a bridge across for people to get from one side of the street to the other. The East End had fared even worse, of course. Whole terraces mown down and streets almost entirely rubble. Grotesquely, the building on the corner of Leman Street, he noticed, still had a side wall intact and a framed view of a Cornish landscape hanging from the picture hook. He crunched his way along the pavement, littered with shards of glass and cracked roofing tiles. The breeze had begun to blow strongly again and pillows of white dust swirled around him. For a moment he had to stand still, his eyes closed against it.

  Turning into Ellen Street, he saw the lodging house ahead, black roof and sightless windows, hovering against the clear blue sky. It loomed discordantly over the dribble of smaller houses, as though it had risen from the pages of a Nordic fairy tale and found itself out of time and out of place. Several of the surrounding properties had been hit on successive nights and had crumbled at one blow. That didn’t surprise him, knowing how shoddily they were built, but at least the debris was light enough for more survivors to be pulled free. Alive but dispossessed. The house adjoining his had had its front cut away as though it were a doll’s house. Skyed high in the air was a dented bath and a lavatory, with a sad little roll of toilet paper still attached to the door. A staircase led to an upper floor that no longer existed. But the house where he lodged had survived all attacks—so far.

  He trod up the stairs as delicately as he could. The ground floor of the house was occupied by an old woman, ninety if she were a day, half mad he was sure. He glimpsed her sometimes through her open door crooning quietly to a cat or slumped in a fireside chair, staring blankly at the bare wall in front of her. Sometimes she would stir herself to fling random curses at whoever was unlucky enough to catch her glance but she rarely noticed his comings and goings, being so deaf that a bomb could have fallen outside her window and she’d not have flinched. It was when he approached the first floor that he steeled himself to tread more softly still. He tried to shut his mind to the ill will he imagined lay beyond that door.

  His years in the army had given him a nose for danger and he was sure the men who lived there were up to no good. It wasn’t just that they’d ended their conversation the minute they realised he understood Hindi, nor th
e sheer absurdity of finding two Indians living in the middle of the East End in the middle of a war. It was the nagging matter of why they were there. The Indian might be a soldier as he claimed, and the man’s cap badge seemed to prove it, but why wasn’t he with his regiment or returned to India? And what was the Anglo doing here? You couldn’t trust Anglo-Indians, they were neither one thing nor the other, neither British nor Indian. Some of them had chips on their shoulders for that reason. Did this one? Did the man mean to expose him as a deserter, imagining perhaps that he’d be paid for the information?

  He was sure it was this man who’d pushed the white feather beneath his door and that was a warning if ever there was. The sooner he was out of Ellen Street, the better. If Daisy did as she promised and tackled Grayson Harte in the next few days, he might have the papers he needed within the fortnight. Harte could do it if he wished, and he would wish. The man had liked Daisy just a little too much. And his wife had liked him back, despite the doubts her husband had tried to sow in her mind all those months ago when Harte had played at being a district officer. Gerald had no compunction in throwing them together again. ‘Wife’ was just a word now, not that it had ever been much else. For a moment he felt remorse at what he’d done to the young girl he’d met at Bridges. But not for long. There was no point in looking back. And he had no qualms in using Grayson’s feelings for Daisy. Not if it would get him what he wanted.

  He put one foot on the stairway leading to his attic. It creaked badly and he froze where he stood on the landing. He tried to breathe very quietly. Were the men on the other side of the door listening? He edged closer so that his ear was almost touching the blistered wood. Inside angry footsteps paced the bare boards. And there were two voices. Both men were at home. He was sure that at least one of them had been following him recently. Several times he’d half sensed a figure at the periphery of his vision and wondered if it was his neighbour. When you said that aloud, it sounded ridiculous, yet … The men were talking loudly, animatedly. Their voices came to him in blurts of noise. He’d heard them argue before, but today there was a new harshness, a new agitation. They were speaking Hindi for certain and the heat of their disagreement was leaving them careless. He caught words here and there, ‘car’, ‘hotel’, ‘Chandan’—was that a name?—disconnected words that made no sense. But he dared not linger and very carefully he placed his shoe on the first step, bracing himself for another agonising creak. Thankfully, the wood remained silent and, on the balls of his feet, he tiptoed up the remaining stairs.