Annie Groves - Wartime for the District Nurses

Yet Kathleen had been more distant since that day. It was as if she felt guilty at sharing the relief, the knowledge that Ray could never hurt her or little Brian ever again. So Billy was biding his time, not wanting to rush things, to ask for too much too soon. One thing was certain though; he didn’t intend to be pipped to the post again. Kathleen was the only woman for him, and if he had to wait until she realised that they were destined to be together, then so be it.

Peggy sighed as she dutifully fastened the blackout blinds in her mother-in-law’s kitchen. This was not how she had imagined her life turning out. She had moved in after she and Pete had got married in the autumn, with the plan that they would have their own house as soon as the war was over. Pete had been happy at the thought of his wife and his mother keeping one another company while he fought for his country. He hadn’t hesitated to enlist in the army when war broke out, even though their long-awaited wedding had been only weeks away. Everything had been going so well; they still managed to marry, and he’d had a wonderful period of leave at Christmas. She’d realised she was pregnant and they’d been thrilled. But then she had miscarried, and before that really sank in, Pete had been killed at Dunkirk.

‘Are you finished in there, Peggy love?’

‘Nearly,’ Peggy called back, from between gritted teeth. She hadn’t minded Mrs Cannon at first. They’d always got along well, and the older woman had welcomed her into her home, pleased that Pete was so happy in his choice of bride. Everyone could see how well suited they were; they’d been together since meeting at school, although they’d only become serious once Peggy had started working at the gas-mask factory.

Now, though, every tiny request or comment drove Peggy to the point of screaming. Nothing she did was ever quite right. The forks weren’t the right way round in the cutlery drawer. She hadn’t used enough Reckitt’s Blue in the washing. She didn’t know the best way to darn the frayed elbow of a jumper. None of these complaints on its own was enough to spark a row, but added together they were stifling.

It wasn’t that Peggy had to do all the housework. She knew she was lucky; plenty of young women her age were expected to do the lion’s share of the cleaning and cooking as well as working full time. Mrs Cannon was not like that and had been heard to boast that Peggy was a good girl, putting in all those hours at the factory and then helping out around the house. Peggy groaned inwardly. It was just that when she did help, it always provoked gentle criticism.

‘Come and listen to the wireless,’ called Mrs Cannon from the front room. ‘That Wilfrid Hyde-White is going to be on – he’s ever so good.’

‘Thank you, I will,’ Peggy replied, wanting to hit her head against the wall. Another evening beckoned of sitting either side of the fireplace with the wireless in pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece, knitting or sewing on buttons while the Home Service played at full volume. Peggy preferred the music programmes, especially if Ella Fitzgerald came on, but her mother-in-law didn’t like those kinds of singers. Peggy had often wondered if she could get away with simply turning the sound down a few notches. Mrs Cannon was a little deaf but would not admit it.

Running out of excuses to stay in the kitchen, she painted on a smile as she went through to where her mother-in-law was already sitting in her armchair, knitting at the ready.

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Mrs Cannon, her eyes twinkling in appreciation. ‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you around, I really don’t. I find it so hard to reach the tops of the windows now, what with my lumbago, and arthritis in my fingers. You’re so nimble, you’re lucky.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Peggy, keeping the smile in place though her cheeks ached. She took the other armchair, the slightly less comfy one, and reached for her sewing bag. She brought out a skirt on which she had optimistically let out the waist when she’d been pregnant; she might as well take it in again. Her fingers trembled slightly at the memory as she threaded her needle.

‘Oh, what good eyesight you have,’ Mrs Cannon said warmly. ‘I remember when I used to be able to do that without my glasses. Not any more. Those days are long gone.’

Peggy nodded. ‘What are you knitting?’ she asked, for something to say, although she already knew the answer. It was the same cardigan her mother-in-law had been working on all week.

‘Just a little something to keep me warm when autumn comes,’ she answered, the same as she always did. ‘I can do one for you if you like.’

Peggy tried not to shudder. The colour, a dull brown, was not at all to her taste. ‘No, you save the wool for yourself,’ she said hastily, knowing that if she were to wear such a shade it would drain every ounce of colour from her face.

So Mrs Cannon thought she was lucky, did she? Peggy could not imagine feeling much worse. Stuck in here, with the sound of those blasted needles clacking away, knowing that any minute now there would be a well-meant but undermining comment about her sewing technique. How was that lucky? No baby, no Pete. How she had loved him, with his athletic frame and dark eyes that sent her weak at the knees every time he looked at her. How she missed holding him, being held by him. She’d never feel like that again. No man could ever come close to Pete, and that heady rush of first love that grew stronger by the year until they’d realised that they were meant for each other. All that had gone, vanished in the waters off Dunkirk.

The only way in which she counted herself lucky was that she was certain how he had died. One of his comrades had seen it happen: one quick, fatal bullet. He wouldn’t have suffered. He had been serving his country, which was what he had wanted to do. He was no coward, had never flinched from physical confrontation. If there was a wrong to be righted, Pete had been the man. For a minute Peggy thought of Edith; nobody was able to reassure her of Harry’s fate. His body hadn’t been found. He had failed to return to his unit, and wasn’t on any of the wounded lists, and so they had to assume he’d drowned and not resurfaced. How unbearable for them all.

Peggy had liked Edith on the occasions when they’d all gone out together. She always seemed keen to enjoy herself, to have a bit of fun, to let her hair down after a hard day’s work, and had fitted in easily to their group of old school friends. A thought occurred to her and she accidentally jabbed the needle into her finger.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ Mrs Cannon asked at once. ‘Haven’t made yourself bleed, have you?’

‘No, no,’ Peggy said, swiftly hiding the telltale dot of blood. She pretended to search for her scissors while the idea grew. She really could not stand the thought of every evening turning out like this, cooped up in the little front room full of trinkets, every one bearing some kind of memory of Pete, with just his old mother for company. Perhaps Edith would like an evening out. They could go to the Duke’s Arms and nobody would mind two women out on their own as they were well known there. Harry and Pete had been regulars, and were well liked. They could sit in the beer garden at the back and watch the world go by. Anything was better than this. Peggy gave a genuine smile and Mrs Cannon smiled back.

Peggy decided she would send a message to the nurses’ home the very next morning.

Edith sped along Dalston Lane on her bike, the breeze catching at her dark hair escaping from her starched cap. She was heading for one of the smaller side streets but had been there often enough not to have to check her bearings. That was often the way with a patient who required nursing twice a day. What with Dennis and this patient, she had a busy round even without any new cases.