Far From Home (5 page)

Polly knelt to examine the young Canadian who was slumped on the carriage floor in the arms of a portly middle-aged woman. His face was the colour of old parchment and blood was pouring from a head wound just above his ear and seeping into the woman’s blouse. ‘Does anyone have something to mop away the blood so I can get a look at the wound?’

The woman dug into a cardigan pocket. ‘Here, use my handkerchief,’ she ordered.

Polly took it and managed to stem the bleeding enough to take a closer look. ‘It’s all right,’ she reassured the other woman. ‘It’s only a flesh wound, but by the looks of his colour, he’ll probably have concussion.’

‘But he’s bleeding so badly, surely it’s serious?’

Polly made a pad of the handkerchief and held it over the wound. ‘Injuries to the head always bleed copiously,’ she explained with a gentle smile. ‘If you could apply some pressure to that pad and hold it there until I can bandage it properly, he’ll be fine.’

As she dealt with the minor cuts and bruises of the other passengers nearby, the guard fought his way back from his van at the rear of the train, armed with a large wooden box marked with a red cross. Polly hunted out rolls of gauze, cotton wool, and a pair of scissors. Gently removing the handkerchief, she made a pad of cotton wool to place over the wound and swiftly bandaged it in place with the gauze.

‘He needs to lie down,’ said the woman, who was clearly used to giving orders. ‘Come on, you lot, make room.’ She glared at the others in the compartment, and they swiftly did as they were told.

The guard helped Polly to lift the young man on to the seat and make him comfortable. He was still out cold, but his colour was a little better, which was a good sign.

‘Can you keep an eye on him? I warn you, though, he could be copiously sick when he wakes up.’

‘Don’t you worry, dear. I’ve had six children. I can handle anything.’

Polly smiled her thanks and left her to it, following the guard to another carriage where she had a sprained ankle and wrist to deal with, several bumps and abrasions, and a couple of nasty cuts from flying glass. By the time she’d finished bandaging and cleaning and mopping up, the first aid box was sadly depleted.

She closed the last of the compartment doors behind her and leant against the handrail that ran beneath the window as the train rocked and swayed in its hurry to reach its destination. The shock of the attack was beginning to take effect, and her legs felt decidedly unsteady again.

‘How long before we reach the next station?’ she asked the guard.

He pulled the watch and chain from the top pocket of his uniform waistcoat. ‘Ten minutes.’ He dug into his trouser pockets and pulled out a small, silver-coloured brandy flask. ‘Here, love. Have a sip of that before you keel over. You’re as white as a sheet.’

‘Thanks,’ she breathed. The brandy was warm in her throat, burning its way down, clearing her head and making her feel more steady. She handed the flask back. ‘I’ll just check on the young man’s head wound again before I go back to my carriage. Will the station master be able to get hold of an ambulance, do you think?’

He frowned. ‘Thought you said it weren’t serious?’

‘All head wounds need looking after, and he’s in no fit state to travel anywhere else today but hospital.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, but the Canadian army will look after him now.’

Polly turned and found she was staring at a broad, khaki-covered chest adorned with medals. She looked up into a clean-shaven, ruddy face and a pair of brown eyes that had a no-nonsense glint in them. The peaked cap covered in gold braid was so low it almost touched his patrician nose.

‘Colonel Samuel J. Johnson, ma’am. Thank you for your medical assistance.’

Polly’s hand was swamped by his. ‘Polly Brown,’ she replied. ‘It was the least I could do, but he will need further attention before he can travel again.’

‘The Canadian army will see to that, ma’am.’

Polly nodded and made her way through the crush to her carriage. She fielded the numerous questions as she took her smaller suitcase and her coat from the overhead rack and sat down.

‘I saved you the last of the tea,’ said the older woman with the jaunty but rather dusty hat. ‘It looks like you’ve earned it.’

‘You’re very kind, thank you,’ Polly murmured. Sipping the welcome tea, she closed her eyes against the bright sunlight and tried to relax, but it was proving impossible. Hereford had escaped the attention of the enemy so far, and news reports of air raids and bombings elsewhere had somehow been softened by distance and lack of involvement. Today’s experience had shaken her badly – had brought the terrifying realities of war much too close for comfort.

She stared out of the window, not really seeing the passing countryside as her thoughts whirled. Cliffehaven might lie directly beneath the path of enemy bombers, and within sound of the guns across the Channel, but Alice and the others would soon set sail into the Atlantic, with enemy sub-marines hunting them down. ‘Dear God,’ she prayed with silent fervour. ‘Keep them safe.’

DANUTA HAD ONCE
dressed carefully and imaginatively despite having little money to spend on such things; now she possessed only the clothes she’d had to borrow. The practical trousers, shirts, boots and sweaters had seen her through the worst of the winter as she’d made her slow and sometimes terrifying passage across Europe and into northern France.

One of the other women in Jean-Luc’s resistance group had provided her with the peasant’s clothing she now wore, and it had served her well, but the drab skirt, blouse and cardigan, the headscarf and sturdy lace-up shoes were far from flattering. The canvas shoulder bag she’d carried all the way from Warsaw was battered and stained, but it had become a sort of talisman, and she went nowhere without it.

With the gas-mask box and canvas bag bouncing against her hip as she walked, Danuta knew she looked a fright, but in the scheme of things, she didn’t really care. Vanity, and the small pleasures of make-up and a pretty dress, were in the past, for there were more important things to think about, and today she must concentrate on finding work at the hospital. Her appearance would surely not be judged, for she had many skills to offer. She could run a ward efficiently, work in the theatre alongside the best surgeons in Poland, and speak three languages almost fluently – but would it be enough to secure a post here?

She stood on the pavement and looked up at the vast grey building that stretched the length and breadth of the block. A white portico with impressive pillars shadowed the main entrance and the steps leading up to the reception hall. Long, elegant windows looked over the wide strip of tarmac where two ambulances had just drawn up outside the double doors leading to the Accident and Emergency Department. Nurses, doctors and orderlies were scurrying by as visitors arrived and left, and patients were carefully taken from the ambulances and hurried inside.

There was a small grassed area off to one side, and Danuta smiled as she watched the group of young men who were sitting in their wheelchairs under a spreading chestnut tree. They were enjoying the sun despite their heavy bandaging, and the game of cards was obviously entertaining them.

Taking a deep breath, Danuta ran up the steps and entered the echoing reception area. It was an old building, and very grand, with black and white squares of marble on the floor and a sweeping staircase with more marble used for the balustrades. She looked up and saw an ornate glass cupola from which was strung an enormous chandelier. How either delicate adornment had escaped the bombing, was a mystery.

Danuta felt a little daunted. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, the nurses bustling in their crisp white aprons and caps, the doctors running down the stairs and looking important in their white coats, the porters wheeling trolleys with panache. But the scents and sounds of this familiar environment were welcoming, and she began to relax.

She caught sight of a middle-aged porter pushing an empty bed, and hurried towards him. ‘Please would you show me where to go to apply for a nursing job here?’ she asked in her clearest and best English.

‘You’ll be wanting Matron, love,’ he said, resting on the heavy iron bedhead and eyeing her from head to toe. ‘Down that corridor, up them steps, and it’s the first on yer right.’

‘Thank you. You are most kind.’

He grinned at her. ‘Watch yer step, love, she’s a bit of a tartar is our Miss Billings. Don’t take too kindly to pretty young girls.’

Danuta smiled fleetingly at the well-meant compliment and hurried away. Running up the steps, she stopped for a moment to compose herself. All matrons were formidable, and she steeled herself for the coming interview as she rapped on the appropriate door.

‘Come.’

She opened the door and stepped inside. The room was spotlessly clean and lined with shelves of files, and a multitude of metal cabinets. There was nothing feminine about it, not even a wilting pot plant. Danuta softly closed the door behind her and waited to be acknowledged.

The woman sitting behind the big desk didn’t look up from the papers before her, and Danuta took those few moments to see what she was up against. Miss Billings was clearly on the wrong side of fifty and wore a flowing white cap over iron-grey hair that had been tortured into a thick, tight bun. The starched white collar, cuffs and apron were quite startling against the dark blue of her uniform, and the only adornments to be seen were a watch pinned above her formidable bosom, and a highly polished buckle on her straining belt.

Danuta was getting rather impatient at the lack of response and cleared her throat.

‘There’s no need for that,’ said the woman, still not lifting her gaze from the paperwork. ‘If you have a cough, I suggest you make an appointment with your GP.’

‘I am here to apply for work, Matron,’ stammered Danuta.

The grey eyes held little warmth as they regarded her from head to toe. ‘And what work can you do, exactly?’

‘I am a theatre nurse,’ Danuta replied. ‘I wish to offer my skills to this very fine hospital.’

The eyebrows lifted, the expression hardened. ‘You’re foreign, aren’t you? Where are you from?’

‘Poland.’ Danuta’s gaze didn’t waver from the other woman’s cold scrutiny.

The strong, capable hand with the square, spotlessly clean fingernails reached across the desk. ‘Your identification papers.’

Danuta scrabbled in the shoulder bag and handed them over.

Ragged and crumpled, stained from much use, they didn’t look particularly wholesome, and Miss Billings held them gingerly as she scrutinised the faded photograph and the various official stamps. ‘I will need to see proof of your qualifications.’

‘So sorry, but I do not have them. They were lost during the siege of Warsaw, but I was trained at …’

‘Without proof of your qualifications I cannot possibly let you loose in my hospital.’

‘But I am skilled theatre nurse,’ she blurted out. ‘I have worked with some of the best surgeons in Poland.’

‘What they do in Poland means nothing here,’ said Matron with a sniff. ‘And I’m far too busy to have to keep an eye on you all the time. As it is, your English is questionable, and I don’t think our patients would appreciate having some foreigner looking after them.’

‘My English is very good,’ Danuta protested. ‘As is my French and German.’

‘German?’ The mouth thinned and the eyes were gimlet as they studied her. ‘I can assure you there is no German spoken in
my
hospital.’

‘Of course, of course,’ she stammered. ‘I was only trying to impress upon you my skills.’

‘It takes a great deal to impress me,’ Matron said coolly. She sifted through the papers on her desk. ‘I have a vacancy in the laundry, but the post does not come with accommodation. Meals can be taken here when you are on shift, and I expect a high standard of obedience, cleanliness and efficiency.’ She eyed Danuta’s shabby clothing with disdain. ‘Uniform will be provided, but it will be up to you to see it remains in pristine condition.’

‘Thank you, but I would be of more use on the wards than in the laundry. Please, Matron, at least give me a chance to prove what I can do.’

She was not to be swayed. ‘I don’t have time to deal with foreigners who might or might not have proper training. It’s the laundry or nothing.’

Danuta realised she could get no further with this bigoted woman. ‘Then I will take it,’ she said with a sigh of capitulation.

Her identification papers were pushed towards her along with a printed sheet. ‘Fill this in and leave it at the desk in reception. You will begin tomorrow morning at six, and your uniform can be collected from stores.’

Danuta stuffed everything in her bag and swiftly left the room before she disgraced herself completely by bursting into tears. After all she had gone through, she was shocked at how easily one spiteful old woman could knock her confidence and make her feel worthless.

Within moments of disembarking, Colonel Samuel J. Johnson had commandeered the station master’s telephone and organised an ambulance, as well as a fleet of jeeps from a nearby Canadian army base. Polly and the other passengers watched with barely disguised envy as the young men were driven away, for they would be stuck here for at least an hour while their train was being thoroughly inspected for any serious damage.