Tuppence to Tooley Street (3 page)

‘I know it’s Danny, but we’re not supposed to get fresh with our patients,’ she grinned back.

The young cockney started to propel his wheelchair, but the nurse stopped him, as a sharp pain shot between his ribs.

‘And what do you think you’re doing, Danny Sutton?’

‘I was jus’ goin’ ter push me chair over ter the seat,’ he said. ‘You could sit down an’ talk ter me fer five minutes.’

‘Just five minutes,’ she said in mock seriousness as she walked around the wheelchair and pushed her patient over to the wooden bench.

The sun was slipping down in the afternoon sky and already a pink tinge lit up the western horizon. It was cooler now as a very slight evening breeze rose. It rustled a loose strand of the girl’s hair and she patted it down as she talked.

‘Why do you insist on knowing my name?’ she asked.

Danny grimaced. ‘I can’t keep on callin’ yer “nurse”. It sounds too . . . I dunno.’

‘Let me tell you, Danny. If Sister heard you calling me anything but nurse I’d be in trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t get yer inter trouble. I’d only use yer name when we was alone–like now,’ he persisted.

‘Listen, soldier boy, we’re not likely to be alone. And anyway, you’ll be off in a few more days.’

Danny looked into her dark eyes. His hand went up to his chest and he grinned. ‘I’m goin’ ter ’ang this out as long as possible. I’d really like ter get ter know yer better, honest I would.’

The nurse flushed slightly and glanced into Danny’s pale blue eyes. His vivacity attracted her and she warmed to his serious look. She noticed the way his fair hair tended to curl above his ears, and the way he had of grinning suddenly. She liked the humorous twitch of his mouth and the way his eyes seemed to widen when he spoke. ‘They’ll be sending you to the other hospital in a few more days,’ she said smiling.

‘What uvver ’ospital?’ he asked.

‘Why, the convalescent hospital up in Hertfordshire. It’s supposed to be very nice there.’

‘Cobblers! I like it ’ere fine,’ he said quickly.

The young nurse’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘Danny Sutton! Don’t use that word! I don’t like it.’

Danny touched her arm and she stiffened noticeably. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s jus’ that, well, I’d like you an’ me ter get ter know each uvver better. ’Ow the ’ell am I gonna find out more about yer up in bleedin’ wherever it is?’

‘Okay,’ she replied in resignation. ‘My name is Alison Jones. I’m twenty-two, and I come from Cardiff. Is that enough to be going on with? Now come on, I’ve got to get you back for tea. By the way, if you mention my name in front of Sister or the doctors, I’ll never speak to you again. Is that understood?’

Danny grinned and raised his hands in mock fear. ‘Understood, Alison.’

When he got back to the ward, Danny learned that only the more seriously wounded were to get visitors. The others would have to wait until they reached the convalescent hospital. He was not unduly worried; he did not want his parents to see him until he became more mobile. He thought about the letter he had scribbled, telling his family that he had only a few scratches. He knew that they wouldn’t believe him. His mother would cry into her handkerchief, while his father would polish his glasses and read the letter again. He pictured the scene back in Dawson Street, Bermondsey. The neighbours would call round to commiserate, and that would only start his mother crying again. He thought of Kathy, the girl from the next street, and wondered if she would get around to dropping him a line.

 

Casualties had been crowded into the old vine-covered buildings, and as soon as the less severely wounded were able to travel they were transferred to other hospitals around the country. Danny found himself waiting with a dozen or so soldiers at the hospital gates for the coach to arrive. It was only three days since he had persuaded Alison to tell him her name. He had managed to snatch a few minutes alone with her once or twice and she had told him a little about herself. She came from a mining family; her father had been killed in a pit accident when she was a child, and her mother had been left to bring up a large brood with little help. Alison told him about the hardships during the miners’ strike, and how the illnesses often caused by coal-mining affected the families in the Welsh Valleys. She said she would have liked to study medicine but it had been impossible, and nursing had been the only alternative. She told him that nothing else mattered to her. Danny responded by telling her about his home in dockland and how his family had suffered during the strikes for better working conditions. Her wide dark eyes had become sad when he told her the stories he had heard from his mother, of his father coming home bloodied on more than one occasion after clashes with the police at the dock gates. Alison’s frank sympathy had surprised him. She said that there had been many dark stories when the army had been called in to threaten the striking miners in the coalfields. Danny had become captivated by her pretty looks and lilting voice as she chatted away to him. He wanted very much to see her again when he got his medical discharge, although Wales seemed a very long way from his home in the grimy, rundown area of London’s dockland. He felt that Alison liked him, and he wondered whether she would agree to meet him again. She had seemed happy and relaxed in his company, but when he had attempted to find out about her life outside the hospital she had been quick to change the subject. He wondered whether or not there was someone else in her life, and he became anxious. His feelings for Alison had grown during those all too brief interludes, and he realised that he was now beginning to think of the Welsh nurse rather more than of Kathy back home.

The coach pulled up at the gates and the waiting patients were hustled into their seats. Danny looked around urgently as his name was called and an orderly helped him to climb aboard. There was no sign of Alison. He sat down despondently and stared out of the window as the coach driver climbed aboard and started up the engine. Suddenly he saw Alison. She waved at the driver and he opened the door for her. She came along the aisle, her face flushed, and when she reached Danny she quickly gave him some letters which she had in her hand. ‘Good luck, soldier boy,’ she said lightly.

Danny looked up into her dark eyes and she bent her head and kissed him lightly on his cheek. He could find nothing to say but he gave her a huge grin as she stepped off the coach.

The driver pulled into the Three Counties Hospital near Hitchen after a tiring journey and the casualties found themselves billeted in prefabricated wards; the hospital had been built in 1938 to accommodate the possible civilian casualties in the event of war. Danny settled quickly into the routine and he was cheered by the fact that he could now get around with the aid of a stick. After a week at the hospital his parents visited him. Alice Sutton fussed over him and said how thin he was looking on the hospital food; Frank Sutton sat uncomfortably on a small garden seat and tried to have a word with Danny when his wife ran out of things to say. Danny felt uncomfortable with them and was glad when it was time for them to go. He felt guilty for his lack of patience as he watched his parents walk arm in arm through the hospital gates. They seemed to have aged; his father was still robust, but his thinning hair had gone completely grey. His mother was lined and frail, and she looked diminutive beside his father. Danny couldn’t understand why it had been so difficult meeting his parents, and he felt sad as he turned and limped back into the ward.

After the weekend visits the hospital settled down to its usual routine. Danny spent most of his time in the hospital grounds. His wounds had largely healed and he could now walk without the aid of a stick. He realised that his twenty-first birthday had passed and he had hardly even remembered it. The days passed slowly until he was finally pronounced fit enough to travel home. The documentation was completed and he had his medical discharge book, a travel warrant, some back pay and a bundle of dressings. As he was piling his belongings into a suitcase Danny saw a figure hobbling towards him. ‘Well I’ll be blowed. Look who it is,’ the soldier said, grinning widely. ‘Remember me?’

Danny recognised the soldier as one of Oggy’s crowd. ‘’Course I remember,’ Danny said loudly with a huge smile. They shook hands, and the slight young man sat on the edge of Danny’s bed and ran his fingers through his wiry hair. His face became serious. ‘I saw yer mate cop it. I didn’t fink you was gonna make it ter the boat.’

Danny shook his head. ‘I can’t remember much after you lot pulled me aboard.’

The soldier eased his plastered leg. ‘Me, you an’ Oggy was the only ones ter make it.’

Danny gasped. ‘I felt sure Oggy drowned. ’E couldn’t swim, could ’e?’

The wiry-haired lad laughed aloud. ‘If you ever bump inter that ugly gypsy yer’ll ’ave ter buy ’im a pint. ’E saved your life. We was ’oldin’ on ter that upturned boat fer dear life. Oggy ’ad yer roun’ the neck. We was in the water fer ages before we was picked up. Me an’ you ended up in different ’ospitals.’

‘Where did Oggy go?’ Danny asked.

‘Back to our depot, I s’pose. ’E never ’ad a scratch on ’im. I tell yer mate, ’e saved both of us that night. I was ready ter give up, but ’e kept on shoutin’ fer me ter ’old on. What a great feller, that Oggy Murphy.’

‘’E sure is,’ Danny said quietly with a smile. ‘’E can get pissed at my expense any time.’

‘Me too,’ the soldier said, nodding his head. ‘They give out medals fer less than what Oggy did.’

Danny finished his packing and clipped the case shut. The two shook hands and the young cockney walked out into the bright sunshine to wait for the coach that would take him to the station. He felt a sudden dismay. The lifeboat had been packed with soldiers and only three of them had survived. The day seemed to have grown cold, and he was glad when the coach finally arrived at the hospital gates.

 

War-time King’s Cross was full of life. There were uniforms everywhere, servicemen moved about the station with kitbags slung over their shoulders, and sandbagged entrances and exits were flanked by large war posters. Military policemen stood in pairs, biting on their chinstraps and eyeing the itinerant servicemen with a cold severity. Danny stared hard at one pair as he walked past them, but they ignored him. He saw placards outside a kiosk tempting the travelling public to read more about the capitulation of France, and he was struck by the serious expression on everyone’s face. The news was bad. He had managed to catch some of the radio bulletins while he was at the hospital, although the matron had forbidden the nurses to let the patients listen. Danny had heard about Italy declaring war on Britain, and it made him think of those Italians who lived around the docks. Some had shops, like the Arpinos and the Lucianis. He had played with Tony Arpino as a kid; together the two of them had got into their first scrape with the police. Danny remembered how Tony, who was a year younger than him, had run home crying after a cuff around the ear from the street bobby, and his enraged father had taken the belt to him for bringing disgrace upon the good name of Arpino. Danny himself had scooted off home with two large cooking apples still stuffed down his trousers, his head ringing from the whack. Danny wondered what would happen to the Italian families. The news broadcasts had said that the Italian nationals were being rounded up and interned and he did not expect to see Tony Arpino or Melissa Luciani around dockland. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to him–Tony was as cockney as anyone in Dawson Street.

Danny walked through the station exit lost in thought and the scene that met him at the busy junction brought him to a halt. Everywhere there were signs of war. Neatly stacked sandbags fronted office buildings and public institutions; there was a public shelter near where he stood; outside, a poster demanded retribution, and another implored everyone to ‘Dig For Victory’. Trams and buses all wore a canvas-like material on their windows, and every building had the criss-cross pattern of brown paper strips over its larger panes of glass. The traffic noise on that Friday afternoon in June 1940 made Danny feel light-headed. He wanted to get away from the stir and disquiet of King’s Cross and back home to his own familiar surroundings. First though, he needed a cup of tea. There was a stall only a few yards away outside the station; he gripped his almost empty suitcase and went up to the counter. The only other customers were two taxi drivers who were talking loudly together. The stall-owner looked at Danny cross-eyed and he ordered a mug of tea. As the tea was being poured into a cracked mug one of the taxi drivers nudged his mate and then looked up at the stall-owner. ‘’Urry up with that pie, Sid,’ he said.

Sid peered over his beaked nose at the leering cabbie. ‘Can’t yer wait five minutes?’ he moaned in a nasal tone. ‘Bloody pie ain’t warm yet.’

Danny put down a threepenny bit and picked up his mug from the soaking wet counter. As he sipped the hot tea he watched the cabbies. The vociferous one returned his stare. ‘Joinin’ up, son?’ he asked with a smirk on his face, his eyes glancing down to the suitcase at Danny’s feet.