Far From Home (12 page)

‘And who are you to flout my orders?’ The cold gaze trawled over her.

‘Staff Nurse Brown,’ she replied evenly.

‘You were supposed to be here a week ago.’

‘Due to severe staff shortages, I was needed at Hereford County Hospital until two days ago. I sent a telegram to let you know I would be delayed.’

‘I have received no such telegram.’ The expression was unrelenting.

‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘I’m here now, Matron.’

‘It simply isn’t good enough,’ she snapped. She folded her hands at her waist and took a deep breath, making the buttons strain over her cliff-like bosom. ‘I will
not
have my wards disrupted with visitors out of hours. You will
learn
, Staff Nurse Brown, that it does not pay to take liberties with my express orders.’

Polly could well imagine that was so, but she said nothing as she reached once again for Adam’s hand.

Matron’s gaze flickered over the united fingers, and her lips pursed. ‘Sergeant Brown needs his rest.’ She took Adam’s hand and tucked it firmly beneath the blanket before she checked the watch on her bosom. ‘I have a very busy evening ahead, but as you’re here you might as well come into my office so I can organise your shifts.’

Polly was about to protest when she caught sight of the probationer silently pleading with her not to upset the old battleaxe further. She took a swift glance at Adam, who hadn’t moved since she’d arrived, and hurried after the sturdy figure sailing towards the doors.

Matron’s office proved to be as tightly ordered as the woman who now sat behind the vast desk. Polly took in the filing cabinets and shelves of folders, noted the lack of flowers and photographs and the absence of a chair for her to sit upon. She hitched the straps of her handbag and gas-mask box over her shoulder and prepared for the undoubted tongue-lashing she was about to receive.

‘Your tardiness has already disrupted my schedule,’ Matron said as she flicked through the neat pile of papers on her desk. ‘I have assigned you to Women’s Surgical, and you will start tomorrow at one o’clock.’

‘I would prefer to work on Men’s Surgical,’ said Polly.

‘You will work where I assign you, Brown. I can’t have relatives in charge of my patients. It simply won’t do.’

‘But I’m qualified to nurse him,’ she persisted, ‘and surely it will help his recovery if he knows I’m there?’

‘You may visit him during the allotted hour – as long as you are not on duty.’ Matron Billings looked up from the papers, and something softened in her expression. ‘Your husband’s recovery is taking longer than Mr Fortescue expected, but I can assure you he is in very capable hands.’

‘His injuries seem far more serious than I expected. Does Mr Fortescue consider he’ll make a full recovery?’

‘He does – but it won’t be helped by you getting emotional, Staff Nurse Brown. Which is why you will be working in Women’s Surgical.’

‘Would it be possible to speak to Mr Fortescue about his treatment?’

‘Mr Fortescue is not only a very important man, but a busy one. You may be able to speak to him when he does his rounds in the morning – but you are not to bother him for more than a few minutes. Any time you spend away from your duties must be added to your shift. You are here to work, Staff Nurse Brown, not to pester the consultants.’

Polly was about to argue when Matron Billings checked her watch again and pushed back the chair. ‘You will sign for your uniform downstairs in Stores, and it is your responsibility to ensure it remains in pristine condition. Any damage or loss will be deducted from your wages.’ She plucked a folder from her desk. ‘I will come down with you. A new girl started in the laundry today, and I need to check on her.’

Polly’s thoughts were whirling as she followed Matron out of the room and down another flight of steps. She’d been working on Men’s Surgical since she’d qualified and it was ludicrous to keep her apart from Adam. It looked as if Matron was determined to make life as difficult as possible.

As they reached the hospital basement she was greeted by the humidity and fragrance of hot water, soap and wet cloth, and the steady rumble of large machinery. As Matron pushed open the laundry door Polly had a glimpse, through clouds of steam, of numerous ironing boards, vast tubs and mangles and a number of drably dressed women wrestling with quite alarming amounts of bedding.

‘Stores is that way,’ said Matron. ‘Make sure you sign for everything.’ She pushed through the door and into the steam. ‘Chimpsky!’ she roared. ‘Mind what you’re doing. That sheet is about to fall on the floor.’

Polly felt a pang of pity for whoever was getting the sharp edge of Matron’s tongue, and hurried along to the stores.

She was measured for her uniform, which consisted of a loose-fitting light blue dress, with detachable starched collars, and an elasticated belt to which she would add the buckle she’d been awarded in Hereford following her final qualifying exams. There was a navy blue woollen cape with a red lining, which had to be worn outside regardless of the weather. Two pairs of thick black stockings were added to the pile, along with a cap, apron and sturdy black lace-up shoes.

Checking everything was in order, she signed the clipboard and then wrapped the clothes in the large piece of brown paper provided by the woman behind the counter, and secured the bulky parcel with string.

Hampered by the parcel, her handbag and gas-mask box, she struggled past the laundry and made her way up the two flights of stairs to the entrance hall. She would have to tell Peggy she would be late for supper, for there was just time to get back to Beach View and hang everything up before snatching a cup of tea and coming back for visiting hour.

As she hurried along Camden Road and past the shuttered Anchor pub, she felt the anger return and the tears well. Matron Billings had no heart – in fact she suspected the woman had iced water running through her veins.

Polly was suddenly overwhelmed with weariness and fear and she stumbled on a loose paving slab as she blinked away her tears. She had survived the terrible journey here, had sacrificed everything in the hope she would be allowed to nurse Adam, but Matron Billings – rot her soul – had made that impossible.

She reached Beach View Boarding House, ran up the short flight of steps to the front door and turned the key. Stepping into the hall she could hear the murmur of voices in the kitchen, but she was in no mood for idle chatter. She needed time to think and plan, for there had to be some way of snatching extra time with Adam, and she was determined to find it – even if it incurred Matron’s wrath.

Ron hadn’t been surprised when Rosie Braithwaite asked him to stay behind after she’d closed the doors on the other customers at two o’clock. It had become a fairly regular thing to change barrels and bring up the heavy crates of bottles for her from the cellar, and he didn’t mind a bit of clearing up when it gave him an extra hour or so in her company.

He’d shifted the tables and chairs back into place, emptied the ashtrays and hung the regulars’ clean pewter tankards back on their hooks above the bar. Rosie usually gave him a glass of whisky for his troubles and, once the place was clean and ready for the six o’clock opening, he’d perched on a stool to drink it as Rosie polished the huge slab of oak that served as the counter.

It was a magnificent sight, that bosom, gently undulating beneath her blouse as she leant over the bar and swept the duster back and forth. Ron could have sat for hours watching it.

‘Don’t you ever get tired of the scenery, Ron?’ she asked with an impish grin.

‘To be sure it’s a fine figure of a woman ye are, Rosie. A man would have to be blind not to appreciate it.’

‘You’ll go blind, more like,’ she muttered good-naturedly.

Ron carried on watching her. He knew he was in danger of being thought a dirty old man, and he didn’t want to make a complete fool of himself – but he simply couldn’t help it, and it was at moments like these that he counted his blessings.

Rosie had been the landlady of the Anchor for years, and her charms were admired by every red-blooded male who stepped over the pub threshold. But despite their efforts to ensnare her, there had been no rumours of men friends or casual liaisons and, as far as Ron knew, Rosie kept herself to herself. Legend had it that there had once been a Mr Braithwaite, but no one could ever remember having seen him, and Rosie refused to confirm or deny his existence.

Her age was unknown, and she wasn’t telling, but the consensus was that she had to be over fifty. However, she wore her years well, her warm, endearing personality making her seem much younger. She was the sort of woman who dressed to show off her figure; her hair was pale gold, her eyes blue and her smile mischievous. She knew how to flirt, how to stop a fight and how to deal with drunks – but she didn’t allow liberties, either with her pub or her person. In short, Rosie Braithwaite was Ron’s ideal woman, and he’d been in love with her for years.

She slung the duster under the counter and put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cuppa and a nice sit-down in a comfy chair. My feet are killing me.’ With this, she eased off the high-heeled shoes and wriggled her toes.

Ron knew this was his cue to leave. He clicked his fingers at Harvey who was asleep under a table. ‘We’ll be off then,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Don’t you want a cuppa then, Ron?’

He felt a jolt of happy surprise. ‘Are ye askin’ me to take tea with you, Rosie?’

‘I’m asking,’ she said through her smile. ‘But don’t get any ideas, Ronan Reilly. The only thing on offer is tea, and perhaps a digestive biscuit.’ She winked at him and led the way up the creaking, narrow stairs.

Ron ordered Harvey to stay where he was and took his time to follow Rosie up the stairs so he could admire her shapely legs, and the way her behind moved in that tight skirt. It was a complete mystery to him that some man hadn’t snared Rosie years ago. If he’d had half a chance, he wouldn’t have had to be asked twice.

‘Sit down while I put the kettle on.’ Rosie padded barefoot across the undulating floorboards and disappeared into what Ron guessed was the kitchen.

He slowly eased himself down in the comfortable chair and looked round him. It smelled lovely up here, he thought, breathing in the scent of bath cubes, shampoo and other womanly delights. The room wasn’t bad either, a bit fussy and cramped for his liking with all those dark oak beams across the ceiling and the chintz curtains and chair covers, but very pleasant.

‘Here we are,’ said Rosie, appearing with a tea tray.

Ron suddenly remembered he was still wearing his cap, and swiftly snatched it off and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. He took the delicate cup and saucer and carefully balanced them in one hand as he helped himself to a biscuit. Easing back into the cushions, he suddenly couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. It was easy to chat to her when she was serving drinks from behind the bar, but up here he found he was overtaken with an unusual and crippling shyness, which was most disconcerting.

Rosie sipped her tea and watched him over the rim of her cup. ‘How are things at Beach View?’ she asked when the silence had grown between them. ‘Peggy well, is she?’

‘Well enough.’ Ron discovered he had to clear his throat. ‘To be sure, ’tis full of women at the moment. Jim and I are outnumbered, so we are.’

‘I’m sure that’s not something either of you should complain about,’ she said dryly, reaching for her packet of cigarettes.

‘Oh, I’m not complaining,’ he said hurriedly, ‘they’re a nice bunch of wee girls, and Peggy seems much happier now she’s so many chicks to mother.’

‘She’s lucky,’ murmured Rosie. ‘My chick is this place.’ She smoked in silence for a moment. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Ron. How come we’ve never done this before?’

‘You never asked me,’ he said, his smile hesitant.

Rosie grinned back at him. ‘How very thoughtless of me,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps we should make this a regular thing, once or twice a week. Get to know one another a little better.’

Ron regarded her and tried not to show how delighted he was at the thought.

She finished her tea and set the cup back on the tray. ‘It’s odd really,’ she mused. ‘I think of you more as a friend than a customer, and yet this is the first time we’ve really had a chance to talk.’

‘It’s not easy to talk to anyone with a bar full of people and someone hammering on the piano.’ He eyed her thoughtfully. She was a lovely woman, but he could sense there was a loneliness in her and that made him feel sad, and rather protective of her.

‘That’s the trouble with running this place,’ she said as she stubbed out her cigarette. ‘It’s difficult to make real friends when the pub takes up all my time, and I’m in quite a vulnerable position here – on my own. I wouldn’t trust half of them down there as far as I could throw them.’

‘Then I’m flattered you trust me enough to offer me tea and biscuits,’ he replied. He began to fill his pipe, feeling easier now, starting to relax. There was a vulnerability about her that he found endearing, for this was a very different Rosie to the one who ran her pub with an iron fist, albeit in a velvet glove. ‘I’m yours for another hour at least,’ he said gruffly. ‘What would you like to talk about, Rosie?’

Peggy hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jim yet, other than to tell him the wonderful news about the coming grandchild. With all the comings and goings there had never been an opportunity to get him alone, and he’d left straight after an early lunch for his shift at the cinema.