The Nurse's War Page 7

  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.’

  ‘And if we can’t persuade them to fight on our side, will it be such a disaster?’

  ‘It won’t be good. And if Congress should decide to join the Axis powers, then we are talking disaster.’

  ‘I wonder if Gerald’s Indians are involved in some way.’

  ‘Unlikely. It’s far more probable they’re deserters, on the

  run like Gerald, or refugees drifting from place to place. There’s been an influx of new people into the country and not just troops from the Empire. The numbers making for London have swollen since the war began and the city has a very mobile population. After all, what better place to lose yourself and assume a new identity? Gerald should feel at home, shouldn’t he?’

  He hadn’t been able to resist the taunt, she noticed, but she wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

  ‘Don’t forget, the black market is thriving,’ he went on, ‘and plenty of refugees make a living from fencing stolen goods and selling them back to shopkeepers. New rackets and racketeers spring up every day. If your Indians are involved in that, they’ll be keeping a careful eye on their neighbours. “Spying” on them, in fact.’

  The moon had risen and, though its light was dim, their path, around corners and over uneven paving stones, was becoming easier. He took her by the arm and steered her into Wigmore Street. ‘I think Gerald has far more pressing problems than a couple of Indians. They won’t want his attention any more than he wants theirs. I suppose he didn’t hear what they were saying?’

  Grayson might dismiss Gerald’s spies as petty criminals but she noticed that he was still curious. ‘He didn’t make much sense of their conversation,’ she said. ‘They seem to be agitated a lot of the time, arguing quite a bit. One of them always remained in the flat, and Gerald was sure that the other followed him whenever he went out.’

  Grayson said nothing and she was moved to add, ‘I know it sounds mad, but once or twice I’ve thought there was someone watching me too.’ And now someone trying to push me onto the line. But she wouldn’t say that and sound even madder.

  ‘How long have you thought you were being watched?’ She wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘Since Gerald popped out of his grave?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. In fact, I thought there was someone that night, the night I first saw him when he came to the Nurses’ Home, but I was probably imagining things. The shock of seeing him again has made me see danger everywhere.’

  ‘Then we’d better get rid of him, hadn’t we?’

  Was she hearing aright? Did that mean he’d made a decision to help? Her heart constricted and her throat went dry. But even if he seemed willing, she couldn’t allow herself to dance in the street. Not yet. Grayson had no idea of the shape or size of her appeal and when he did … But she had to go on with it, or how else was she to say a final farewell to Gerald?

  Her stomach knotted in apprehension. The moment was crucial. ‘Is it possible,’ she asked in a low voice, ‘would it be possible, to get papers for Gerald? To smooth his passage to America.’

  Grayson stopped abruptly and she almost fell over her feet. ‘You’re not asking much, are you?’

  ‘I know what I’m asking is huge but I can’t see any other solution.’

  There was a long pause before he said, ‘There isn’t one.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll try to get papers?’ Could he really be about to agree? It seemed impossible and she had to tell herself to keep breathing.

  ‘Yes, it means I’ll try.’

  Overwhelming relief made her jettison caution. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him and held him tightly. They stood for a while, body to body, and then very gently he detached himself and held her at a distance. In the dim light, she could see his face, careful, serious. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be successful. You’ll have to give me a few days.’

  ‘I will, but thank you, Grayson, thank you so very much.’

  And, with a swift movement, she freed one of her hands and reached upwards, smoothing his cheek as she did so. The caress fleetingly touched his lips. Old desires were woken and in that instant she wanted very much to kiss him, but he regained his clasp on her hand and brought it to rest in his. Before, she thought, she could do anything she would regret.

  ‘Sorry, guv’nor, yer can’t walk this way. There’s still one of ’em down there.’

  An ARP warden was blocking their path and pointing to a huge crater straddling the road outside what had once been a house. The sides of the building had been torn away, exposing crumbling inner walls and wallpaper that flapped in tattered strips. How long the warden had been there, she had no idea, caught up as she’d been in that moment of intimacy. Now she could see a large white barrier and could just make out its warning, DANGER UNEXPLODED BOMB. Beyond the barrier, a crew of weary firemen was hosing the still burning building and the wounded were being helped to safety and ‘a nice cup of tea’ at the wardens’ post.

  It was mundane. Death itself had become mundane, mere figures on an ARP’s casualty chart. Several of the wardens were still searching the rubble for survivors, while neighbours and bystanders worked frantically alongside. Everyone in London was a member of this civil army, she thought. The city depended on its inhabitants to keep it going. Even her erstwhile colleagues in the perfumery department, those girls who had been so scornful of her, were part of that army. Bombs rained down on Bridges as much as they did on the battery at Marble Arch and the women, and thousands like them, who lived and worked in the streets of the city were as much under fire as the soldiers behind the guns in Hyde Park.

  ‘Where are yer goin’, mate?’

  ‘We’re headed for the City, near St Paul’s.’

  The man shook his head. ‘I dunno if that’s been hit bad. We haven’t heard news yet of damage in the east. But you can’t walk this way. Best turn northwards and make a loop.’

  Together they turned in the direction of the Euston Road. The streets here were unfamiliar to them both and they were for
ced to travel more slowly, navigating the dense dark that once again cloaked the world beneath an opaque sky. For the most part they walked in silence, sunk deep in their own thoughts. Daisy was conscious that something unexpected had happened, that in some way she had taken the first tentative steps to bridging the gulf between them. The last time they’d met, she’d been adamant she could never be more than his friend and when he’d refused the offer of friendship, she’d retreated into a loveless world of her own. Yet just now she had quite spontaneously broken through the isolation she’d imposed on herself; she had clasped in her arms the man who walked beside her. It altered nothing, of course. Nightmares from the past would still haunt her and whether Gerald left England or not, she would remain his wife. But something had happened, something she hardly dared put a name to. At least not yet.

  Grayson broke the silence. ‘We should probably turn south here, drop down to Russell Square and then into High Holborn. Let’s hope we don’t meet more barricades or we could be a long while getting back.’

  She hoped so too. Her feet were already beginning to feel sore in the smart shoes she’d chosen for this encounter, and there was a definite blister forming on her small toe. She tried to think of something else. A loud hissing sound floating through the air towards them was nicely distracting.

  ‘Steam engines,’ he explained. ‘They’re waiting to leave.’

  ‘Are we that close to the station?’

  ‘It’s just over the road. How’s this for an idea? Why don’t we stop for a short break? It’s not late and there’s bound to be somewhere open on the forecourt. We can grab a cup of tea, or something stronger, if you’d rather.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ she said, thinking how pleasant it would be to rest her feet, ‘and tea will be fine.’

  She felt unusually feeble, though she didn’t like to admit to it. A long walk such as this would not normally have tired her, but she’d been strung tight the whole day and her body had begun to hurt from the strain. A few minutes brought them to the forecourt and the noise, caged within the station’s four walls, was intense. Several long trains were waiting impatiently for their customers. Or was it for their victims, she thought fancifully. The trains were like prehistoric beasts, smoking and hissing under the huge, gloomy cavern of glass. Apart from rows of faint blue high up in the roof, there was no light in the entire station. The figures of porters moved like unworldly shades around the bales and packages which lay heaped in dark corners.