Home for Christmas

Watching her boyfriend carefully exploring the site of the wound with one of the instruments from the trolley, his whole concentration on his task and the patient, Sally was filled with fresh admiration and respect, not just for George but for the hospital that had trained him.

‘One side’s pressed up close to the bone. Hitting it must have deflected the glass.’

‘What I want you to do now is get under the tip of the glass and support it, but first we’ll need you and Nurse Johnson to hold his forearms steady, if you please, Sister.’

At a brief nod from Sister Casualty, Sally went to Eric’s injured arm whilst Sister Casualty took the other arm.

Now Sally really was holding her breath. Eric was still unconscious, now thanks to the morphine, but it was still possible that he might jerk his body – with potentially fatal consequences – under the exploration George had to carry out unless they held him still.

George leaned over the patient. Sally clenched her teeth when she heard the sound of the metal instrument grating against the glass.

‘Got it?’ Mr Pargiter asked.

‘Yes,’ George confirmed.

‘Right.’

Slowly and carefully the senior registrar started to lift the glass from Eric’s arm, the involuntary flinch Sally could feel gripping the muscles of his upper arm automatically causing her to press down on it more firmly.

‘Got it.’

There was a note of quiet satisfaction in the senior registrar’s voice, and a good deal of pride in Sally’s heart when he added, ‘Nice work, Laidlaw. Now we need to get him cleaned up. Not sure whether or not he’ll be able to keep his arm, mind you. Still, he’s a lucky blighter that you were around, Nurse.’

A little later, setting off for the second time in one morning for number 13 and her bed, Sally promised herself that this time she would go straight back without taking any diversions. She was so tired that she dare not even blink in case she fell asleep.

Chapter Five (#ulink_b5988f55-d157-5f5a-860c-810c7fdd34c8)

‘Hello, Kit. I haven’t seen you all week. Are you going to St John Ambulance tonight?’ Tilly asked Christopher Long, catching up with him when she saw him walking down the Row in front of her, no doubt making his way to work.

Kit, who lived with his recently widowed mother at number 49, was in the civil service. He was also a conscientious objector, something that Nancy in particular was inclined to make disparaging remarks about. Tilly felt sorry for Mrs Long, but more so for Kit, with his awkward uncoordinated walk, and his introverted nature.

‘I won’t be there tonight,’ he answered her. ‘I won’t be able to make it.’

‘You aren’t not, not coming because one of the girls was so silly and mean the other week, are you?’ Tilly asked, remembering how unkind another member of their group had been to Kit when he had first joined.

‘No,’ he answered her shortly, increasing his pace.

‘Then why aren’t you coming?’ Tilly persisted, hurrying to keep up with him. ‘I wanted to practise my bandaging on you,’ she teased him, hoping to bring a smile to his face, but, if anything, he looked even more miserable.

‘If you must know, I can’t come. You’ll have to find someone else to bandage, because I’ve got to go to enlist for bomb disposal training.’

Tilly couldn’t contain either her gasp of shock or her disbelief. ‘But you’re a conscientious objector,’ she protested.

‘That means I don’t believe in wounding or killing other people. According to the Government, that doesn’t include not wanting to be wounded or killed myself,’ he informed her bitterly, ‘which is why I have to report tonight to enlist. Enlistment, medical check, uniform collection . . .’ he ticked them off on thin trembling fingers, ‘. . . and then I’ll be off somewhere to be trained in how ultimately to kill myself, seeing as that’s what seems to happen to bomb disposal men.’

He was right, Tilly knew. It had been in the papers how many men were killed when the bombs they were trying to make safe exploded.

‘I don’t understand. Why are you doing it if you don’t want to? You’re in a reserved occupation,’ Tilly pointed out.

‘You mean I was. We’ve got a new boss in our department. He doesn’t like me and he’s moved me to a non-reserved job, just because his own son has joined up and he thinks everyone else should do the same.’

Tilly didn’t know what to say. It was plain to her that Kit was very upset. His Adam’s apple wobbled when he spoke and his naturally pale face looked whiter than ever.

‘It might be better than you think,’ she tried to console him, biting her lip when he turned to her with a burning look in his eyes and demanded, ‘How?’ before walking away at a speed that told her that he didn’t want her to catch up with him.

‘Dulcie, you’ve got a visitor,’ Olive told her lodger. ‘A Lizzie Walters. She said she’s come from Selfridges to see how you are. I’ve put her in the front room. You go in and I’ll bring you each a cup of tea.’

It was half-past two, just about an hour since the all clear had sounded after a daylight air raid, during which Olive, Dulcie and Sally had all had to take refuge in the garden shelter.

‘Another blinking raid, that’s all we need,’ Dulcie had huffed in complaint, before adding darkly, ‘Mind you, it is Friday the thirteenth.’