The September Girls (38 page)

‘What about?’ She felt startled. Oliver and Lewis rarely had a difference of opinion let alone an argument, and certainly not a heated one.

‘I don’t know what about, Mummy. I wouldn’t dream of eavesdropping.’

Eleanor had no such inhibitions. She went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Raised voices were coming from Lewis’s room.

‘But how could you do this to me, Lewis?’ Oliver wailed.

‘You’ve already asked me that a dozen times, Ollie,’ Lewis replied in his lovely deep voice with its Scots burr, ‘and my answer never varies: I’m not doing anything
to
you. I’m joining up. I want to see some action, not sit pushing pieces of paper around while other men fight this dratted war on my behalf.’

‘That’s frightfully selfish of you, Lew.’ Eleanor could detect a sob in Oliver’s response.

‘Actually, old chap, it’s the very opposite of selfish. Perhaps you’ll understand once you’ve calmed down a bit.’

‘I shall never calm down, Lew.’

‘Yes, you will. Another year or two and I’d’ve been called up anyway, and it won’t be long before it’s your turn.’

Oliver had begun to cry. ‘I don’t know how I’ll live without you.’

‘You’ll manage, my dear old chap. Now, come over here and let me dry those tears for you . . .’

Eleanor felt tears come to her own eyes. What a beautiful friendship they had! If only all men loved each other the way Oliver and Lewis did, there’d never be a war again.

 

‘Well, young man, I think we can confidently say you’ll walk again,’ the doctor chortled. He was fiftyish, short and tubby with flaming red hair and millions of freckles. Fergus didn’t chortle back. An ambulance had brought him to the military hospital in Bebington, but he’d walked into the doctor’s office and it was obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that he was already walking again, although he still needed crutches, as it hurt to put his weight on the injured leg.

‘And,’ Dr Worthington continued jovially, ‘you’ll be discharged from the Army as unfit for service.’

Was this another joke? ‘Do you mean that?’ Fergus gasped.

‘Every word,’ he was assured with a grin. ‘The bullet entered the back of your knee, shattering the bones. You’ll have to have an operation to have a metal sleeve inserted and it means you won’t be able to bend your knee like you could before, not with so many nuts and bolts inside you. You’ll end up with a bit of a limp and we can’t have a limping soldier on parade, can we?’ He spoke as if he actually owned the bloody Army.

‘I suppose not,’ Fergus said weakly.

‘I suspect that’s the best news you’ve heard in years.’

‘What, that I’ll walk with a limp for the rest of me days?’

‘No, that you’re being discharged from the Army.’ He was like one of those Cheshire cats, grinning all the time. ‘If I were you, I’d be dancing for joy despite a shattered knee. You’ve done your stint, emerged a hero and now you can sit the war out from a safe distance. You’ll even get a few shillings pension.’

‘But I wasn’t a hero.’ Fergus felt tears come to his eyes. He sat up on the bed feeling uncomfortable with the grinning doctor looking down on him. ‘I was terrified most of the time and when I threw meself on top of the little French lad, I wasn’t even thinking.’

‘People aren’t brave if they feel no fear, and when you threw yourself and the boy into the ditch, you were behaving quite spontaneously, with no thought for yourself.’ The man had stopped grinning and looked sober for a change. He slapped Fergus’s good knee. ‘You’re a hero, young man, and don’t you forget it. Now, I’ll send a card with the date and time of your operation: it’ll probably be mid-July. Would you like a wheelchair to take you out to the ambulance?’

‘No, ta. I’d sooner walk. Tara, Doctor, and thanks.’

I’ll not be wearing this uniform for much longer, Fergus thought, as he transported himself skilfully along the corridor towards the exit - he was becoming a dab hand with the crutches. He tried to work out how he felt about losing the uniform, but wasn’t sure. His brain was still as muddled as it had been in Dunkirk.

‘Are you Fergus Caffrey?’ A young nurse with jet-black hair cut in a fringe appeared at his side. Fergus nodded.

‘We saw your photey in the
Echo
and heard you were coming in. We’re both from Liverpool, you see.’ A second nurse had appeared at his other side. She was tall and blonde and reminded him of his sister, Cara.

‘We’ve been waiting outside Doctor Worthington’s office to have a look at you ’cos the photey only showed you from the back.’ The black-haired nurse giggled. ‘We didn’t expect you to be so good-looking. And you really suit them glasses.’ Fergus had acquired a new pair of spectacles. He wasn’t quite sure if he needed them or not, but felt more comfortable with them on.

‘
Really
good-looking,’ echoed the blonde one. ‘I’m Pamela by the way, and she’s Betty.’

Fergus felt slightly dizzy. ‘Pleased to meet you, Pamela and Betty.’

‘Do you mind if we come with you as far as the ambulance?’ Betty enquired.

‘As long as it won’t get you in trouble.’ He felt even dizzier.

Pamela laughed. ‘Oh, we’re always in trouble for something or other, so it doesn’t matter, does it, Bet?’

‘No. How long will it be before you can go dancing again, Fergus?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Fergus had never been to a dance in his life. He was beginning to enjoy the attention of the two pretty nurses. ‘I might not be able to dance any more. I’ve got to have an operation and the doctor ses I’m likely to end up with a limp.’

‘Would you like me and Betty to teach you to dance again?’

‘I would like that very much, thank you.’

‘Would it be all right if we came to see you? You’d have to give us your address, of course.’

‘I’d like that very much, too.’ The limp apart, there seemed no end to the advantages of having a German shoot you in the leg.

Cara slammed her foot on the brake, the car screeched to a halt, and she leapt out and was sick at the side of the road.

‘Are you all right, Caffrey?’ A concerned Captain Bradley poked his head out of the rear window.

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just my tummy, it seems to be a bit upset.’ She felt dead embarrassed as she made her unsteady way back to the Humber and slid behind the wheel. ‘I think it must be all the excitement.’

‘Of course, you’re getting married soon - when is it?’

‘The day after tomorrow, sir.’ She reached for the ignition, but the captain leaned forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Have a little rest before we set off again. I’m in no hurry. Would a little drop of whiskey help? I have a flask in my pocket.’

‘That’s kind of you, Captain, but I think it might make it worse.’ Just the thought of whiskey made her feel nauseous and the blazing sun didn’t help. Lately, the heat had been getting her down. She felt as if she was being slowly roasted in an oven, despite not wearing a jacket and having rolled up the sleeves of her shirt.

‘Are you getting married in our little chapel in Marzipan Hall?’

‘Yes, sir, at midday.’ It was just over forty-eight hours away.

‘I might pop in if that’s all right, wish you good luck.’

‘You’d be more than welcome, sir,’ she said warmly.

‘Have you had any more news about your brother?’

‘Not since we last spoke, sir, no. He was going to hospital for an assessment the other day, but I’ve no idea how he got on.’ It had been an enormous relief to get a letter from Mam saying Fergus was safe, if not exactly well.

‘Strange thing, Dunkirk,’ the captain mused. ‘They managed to turn an ignominious defeat into a glorious victory. Clever chappie, Churchill.’

‘Indeed he is, Captain.’ She was beginning to feel better. At least her heart had stopped racing and her tummy was settling down. Nothing could be done about the sun except to escape from its blistering rays - the sooner, the better. ‘I feel OK now,’ she said and started up the car again. She was taking the captain to Valletta for a meeting in the same café where she’d met Kit three months before.

Like last time, the meeting was being held in a private room upstairs. When Captain Bradley had disappeared, after asking her to wait and saying he wouldn’t be long, Cara removed her cap, settled in a dark corner where it was as cool as it was likely to get in Malta in July, and ordered a cold drink from the waiter with the film star looks. A few minutes later, the same Air Force official as before arrived, but when Cara looked in the hope his driver was Kit, it was a much older man. She didn’t mind too much; she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

It wasn’t excitement that was upsetting her tummy, but the consequence of the night she’d spent with Kit in Gozo: a baby. She recalled how much it had hurt, that Kit had called it a disaster, yet it had been the beginning of the new life that was now growing inside her.

She hadn’t told Kit, not yet. It had only been the other day that she’d realized the sickly feeling she had every morning, the urge to vomit at the most inconvenient times, going off her food, particularly anything fried, were because she was pregnant and that her life, which had already changed out of all proportion over the last year, was about to change again. She’d thought that she and Kit would continue to see each other regularly, a few times a week, but it would seem this was not to be.

She loved the Army, but as soon as they were married, she would have to leave, go home and have his child, then sit and wait for the war to end and for him to return to a ready-made family.

Her mind was already made up that she would go to Liverpool. She wanted to be near her mother at such a crucial time, although there wouldn’t be room in Shaw Street with Tyrone, Maria and the lads already living there. If Lewis Brown had been tempted to volunteer as he’d mentioned that time they’d met, perhaps she could take over his room and become one of Eleanor’s lodgers. The rent could be paid out of the allowance she would get from the Army for being Kit’s wife.

It would mean telling Mam that she and Kit had got married months ago and there’d be hell to play for not telling her before, particularly when she learnt it wasn’t in a Catholic church. But it would be better than her knowing Cara had been two months pregnant when the wedding took place: she’d take it for granted that she’d
had
to get married. Cara remembered how long it had been before she would so much as speak to Maria for having to marry Tyrone; she wasn’t prepared to live under the shadow of her mother’s anger until the time came for her to be forgiven, however long that might take.

 

On the night before her wedding, Cara invited the girls from the billet to Marzipan Hall for a drink in the mess - the two girls on duty reluctantly had to stay behind. They went early at half six, because Kit and Mac were coming at about eight. They raced each other on their bikes all the way from Valletta. Kit usually won, as his legs were the longest.

Within an hour, the girls were in a state of acute inebriation, apart from Cara who stuck to lemonade. Their merriment was infectious and everyone in the crowded mess willingly attached themselves to the end of the chain when they danced the conga, joined in the hokey-kokey and ‘Knees Up, Mother Brown’, sang ‘We’ll Meet Again’, ‘Roll out the Barrel’, ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and every other song they could think of. Cara was kissed and wished good luck so many times she lost count.

Fielding was doing a perfect imitation of Charlie Chaplin when Corporal Culpepper appeared looking extremely cross. ‘Is there a single one of you that’s sober?’ he demanded. The girls fell silent, shuffled their feet and tried not to giggle.

‘Only me,’ Cara said.

‘In that case, Caffrey, get yourself to Valletta in a hurry and collect Lieutenant Banks from headquarters - they haven’t got a car to spare, someone else would have brought him. Major Winkworth-Blythe wants him urgently for some reason, probably fancies a game of cards. I’ve brought a car with me: it’s outside, the key’s in the ignition and there’s a tin hat in case there’s a raid. Don’t forget to put it on the minute the siren goes.’ There’d been two or three raids every week since the first one in May.

‘But what about Parker and Hughes?’ Fielding cried. Parker and Hughes were the drivers who’d stayed behind.

‘Parker’s gone to Hal Far to collect someone off a plane: Hughes cut her hand this afternoon and it looks like it’s going septic. I had to send her to First Aid.’ Culpepper’s eyes flashed thunder. ‘Are you questioning my orders, Fielding, you little twerp?’

‘No, Corpy, but Cara’s getting married tomorrow and it hardly seems fair.’

‘I know damn well she’s getting married tomorrow. Aren’t I the one who’s giving her away? And I doubt if Major Winkworth-Blythe would see anything unfair about it.
Caffrey
!’ the corporal barked. ‘Are you still here? Didn’t you hear me say something about hurrying?’

‘I’m on my way, Corpy.’

It seemed more unfortunate than unfair, Cara thought as she climbed into the car. She’d been enjoying letting her hair down. She was on the verge of moving away when the passenger door opened and Fielding tumbled inside, her hat on back to front and carrying her tie.

‘You’d think you’d just robbed a bank,’ Cara remarked.

‘Thought I’d come with you,’ Fielding gasped. ‘Drop me off at that shrine by Barracca Gardens and I’ll meet up with the blokes. They always come that way and Mac can bring me back on the handlebars of the bike.’

‘I’m sure he’ll love that.’

‘He probably will. I say, Caffrey, this seat’s awfully uncomfortable.’

‘That’s because you’re sitting on a tin hat.’

‘D’you think it’s Culpepper’s?’ Fielding put the hat on the floor and rested her feet on it. ‘If you wear it, you’ll probably get nits or something.’

‘I don’t know who it belongs to.’

‘Are you looking forward to tomorrow?’