Now the War Is Over
Read Now the War Is Over Online
Authors: Annie Murray
NNIE
M
URRAY
Now the War is Over
PAN BOOKS
For our Rachel
XX
Contents
March 1961, Selly Oak Hospital
‘Nurse! Student Nurse Booker – what on earth has got into you? You never,
ever—’
The remainder of Sister Anderson’s admonitions about what student nurses must never,
ever
do faded into a bewildered silence as she stood in the doorway of the ward sluice.
Melly felt the glower of Sister Anderson’s eyes drilling through her as she leaned over the sink, her clammy hands locked to its cool whiteness. She knew that the senior staff usually saw
her as an intelligent student who was eager to please. She wanted to be the best nurse you could ever be but she had just rushed off in the middle of the Sister’s showing her a procedure, in
a quite disgraceful manner.
Melly hung her head, with its neatly fastened mouse-brown hair and nurse’s cap. She was trembling so violently that she was afraid her legs might give way. Her heart felt as if it was
about to pound right out through the front of her chest.
‘Nurse?’ Sister Anderson tried again, though her voice was a fraction less harsh now.
Melly simply could not turn round. How could she explain to Sister that every day had become a nightmare to her, of exhaustion after lying awake, her mind churning; that she could no longer
concentrate on anything, that she felt as if she was going mad? And even worse, that when Sister had requested her to remove that drip from Mr Brzezinski’s arm, she had seen that bead of
blood, round and shiny as a ladybird in the crook of his elbow . . . And while she knew this was normal and that the platelets would make the blood solidify into a scab, in her mind the blood
forced its way out, gushing, pumping . . . She had actually seen it: the bedclothes dyed red, the pulsing tide of it coming and coming, unstoppable . . . And that was when she ran . . .
‘I –’ she gulped, trying to find words, desperate for anything on which she could hang a normal thought. For days now, everything had felt so grey, so full of fear and panic,
it was as if she was locked in this prison alone and no one could hear her.
She heard Sister’s footsteps moving closer and her body shook even harder, as if in the face of great danger. Sister Anderson was in her forties, a sturdily built woman with pink cheeks
and grey eyes, her brown hair always in the neatest bun under her frilled cap. She was stern, though usually fair: an excellent nurse, everyone said so.
Melly could feel Sister Anderson standing just behind her.
‘What is the meaning of this, Nurse Booker?’
‘I don’t know,’ she managed to say. ‘I just can’t . . .’ She held out her hands. ‘I can’t stop shaking.’
‘Nurse –’ The Sister’s tone was gentler now, but there was still a tough firmness to it. ‘I understand that recent events have been difficult for you. We have all
been aware of the . . . circumstances. But shocking and upsetting things happen. It’s in the nature of the work. A nurse has to be able to face such events and not be borne down by them. You
have to keep going and do your best for your patients. And you never,
ever
dash about like that on the ward.’
Melly hung her head. She knew nothing now, except the leaden, joyless feeling that filled her, the panic that rose in her however hard she tried to stifle it.
‘I do understand,’ Sister Anderson went on. ‘But you must also realize that this situation cannot continue. We do not expect displays of emotion from our nurses. If you cannot
control yourself, your nursing career will be at an end. You will have to think of withdrawing from—’
‘No!’ Melly whirled round. ‘No, please! I want to be a nurse. It’s all I’ve
ever
wanted.’ Her usually sweet and cheerful face looked pale and
strained. ‘Please, Sister – just give me a few moments. I’ll try, I really will!’
‘Very well. Take a short break now. I shall expect you back on the ward in twenty minutes. In command of yourself.’
‘Yes, Sister,’ Melly whispered. Looking down, she could see Sister’s solid black shoes move away, leaving her alone.
She tried to do as she was bidden. But she still could not move. She sank down, leaning against the wall next to the sink, and wrapped her arms around her knees.
1951
One
March 1951, Aston, Birmingham
All Melly had wanted to do that terrible Saturday morning was to give Mom a surprise. The baby was due any day now and her mother, Rachel, was sickly and exhausted.
‘You’ll have to go down to the shops again for me later, Melly.’
Rachel Booker stood, holding on to the back of a chair for support as the children finished their bit of breakfast. Her face was pale, twisted with nausea. ‘We’ve no lard – we
need cheese . . . bread . . .’ She was talking half to herself but Melly was taking it all in. ‘You can go later. Mind Tommy and Kev for me while I lie down for a bit, there’s a
good girl. I must’ve overdone it yesterday. Oh – I’ll be glad when it’s over.’
Clutching her belly she crawled off upstairs.
Melanie Booker, nine years old, looked about the cramped room, the only downstairs living space of a back-to-back house. There was a gas stove, the table and chairs, a stool and armchair, and a
sideboard where they kept the crocks and cutlery. The most impressive feature was the old iron range, which they only lit in the winter. A door opened to a tiny scullery with a sink, though there
was no running water in the house. It had to be carried from the tap in the yard. Dad and Auntie had done the house up last summer. They stoved the house yet again to get rid of the bugs and
papered the walls with a green-on-white pattern of trees and country scenes. Auntie Gladys was proud of her house and kept it nice, even though it was a running battle against damp and vermin in
all these back-to-backs on yards which clung round the heart of Birmingham, pressed in tight between factories and warehouses.
The room was crowded enough now, but soon there would be a pram in there again . . . Mom was forever cursing the place, saying it was a ‘flaming rathole’. But so far as Melly was
concerned, it was home.
Melly was used to being in charge of her brothers. Two-and-a-half-year-old Kev, a wiry, active little lad, was on the floor, a crust in one hand, which he was posting absent-mindedly into his
mouth along with a ration of snot. With the other hand he was scraping a tin lorry back and forth along the lino. He was brown-haired, with thin, dark arcs of eyebrows which made him look both
innocent and quizzical. Tommy, who was seven and darker in looks than Melly and Kev, was in his special chair, still eating his breakfast too. He could feed himself well enough with his good right
hand, but the muscles of his tongue gave him trouble. It took him a long, laboured time to eat his food.
‘Right, Kev – eat up now,’ Melly bossed him. ‘You’ll get muck all over it, else. And keep out of my way while I do the washing-up.’
She dragged a chair over to the gas stove. Clambering up, she lifted the heavy kettle down with sturdy movements, to pour hot water into the enamel bowl she had placed on the floor. She had to
get on the chair again to put the kettle back. Then, narrowing her eyes against the steam clouding from the bowl, she carried it carefully to the table, added some cold and washed up the breakfast
things, leaving them overturned to dry. Wielding the heavy broom, she swept out the room, working round Kev, chasing scraps of crust from under the table to cheat the mice.
She wanted to please her mother – to do everything so that Mom would not have to work while she was feeling so poorly. Dad and Auntie had already gone out, because they worked at the Rag
Market on Saturdays, so it was up to her to help around the house.
A daring idea came to her. She would go and do the bits of shopping now. This was nothing new – she was always popping up and down the road for Mom. But this time she would take Tommy with
her!
‘You finished, Tommy?’
Tommy nodded and said, ‘Yes,’ with his usual sideways mouth movement. They’d thought Tommy would not be able to walk or talk – but he could do a bit of both, in his own
fashion.
Melly wiped his mouth and hands and made sure he was strapped into the chair contraption that their neighbour, Mo Morrison, had rigged up for him. Mo had adapted Tommy’s first chair for
him when he was very small. This was the next size up. Mo had taken another wooden chair as Tommy grew and modified it. He fixed arms on and a high headrest. There was a bar across the front that
you could swing round to stop him falling out. This one had better wheels than the last – with rubber on – so it was easier to push along. Mom had always been determined that Tommy
should not be shut away.
Melly went to the mantle and rattled the jug where her mother kept the ration books and bits of loose change. She wrapped the coins in a rag and pushed it into her pocket. Then she went and
scooped Kev up into her arms and carried him out into the yard. He roared with annoyance.
‘Shurrup, our Kev,’ Melly said as she carried him. ‘You’re going to see Auntie Dolly.’
Theirs was one of five houses built round a brick yard, accessed through a narrow entry on to the street. Three of the houses – or half houses – backed on three others which faced on
to the street, sharing a roof with them. The other two were built up against the wall that divided their yard from the one next door. The far end was bounded by the blank, sooty wall of a
wire-spinning firm called Taplin & May’s. The Booker family lived at number three on the yard with Melly’s dad’s auntie, Gladys Poulter. Melly carried Kev to number one and
knocked on the door.
‘What’s up, bab?’ Dolly Morrison, a pretty woman with dark Italian looks came to the door wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You all right – yer mother’s not
started . . . ?’
‘No,’ Melly panted. Kev was a slender child, but heavy enough and he was wriggling like a fish on a hook. ‘Can I leave him with you for a tick? Mom’s having a lie-down
and I said I’d go up the shops . . .’
‘Course you can, bab. Here, give me him. Donna’ll be all over him.’
Mo and Dolly had six children – five boys, all blonde, before Donna, their adored little girl, had come along with her brown eyes and black curls.
‘Ta,’ Melly said. She ran back to Tommy. ‘Come on then – we’re going to the shops for our mom.’