The patients on the first floor had been squeezed into a single ward which was decorated with branches of holly from the trees outside. One of the men had obtained a sprig of privet which he proclaimed to be ‘wartime mistletoe’, and Kitty found herself kissed again and again as she did her rounds. She affected to ignore the bottles of spirits which were being surreptitiously passed from bed to bed.
Kitty was aware of the excitement, but she felt excluded. She still hadn’t got over the shock of being deserted on Christmas Day by the one person in the world she thought she could rely on.
‘I’m all on me own now,’ she kept reminding herself. She wondered if Stan Taylor might welcome being asked to Christmas dinner, but when she could spare a minute to go down to the office on the ground floor, the big room, normally a hive of activity, was almost empty.
‘Stan managed to get a forty-eight-hour pass,’ she was told. ‘He’s gone to London to see his girlfriend.’
If it had been Lucy on duty the next day Kitty would have offered to swop. ‘Then there’d be two old maids together, me and Harriet,’ she thought bitterly. But there was no way she’d swop with Clara Watkins after that business with Martin McCabe’s ring. Anyroad, she’d want to know why Kitty was suddenly free and when she explained, Clara might declare her too to be ‘pathetic’.
Later, when she went round with the trolley to collect the afternoon tea dishes, she wished everyone a Merry Christmas from the door.
‘Does that mean you won’t be in tomorrow, Kitty, luv?’ a chorus of voices demanded in dismay.
‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to manage without me,’ she told them with a forced smile. Her head had begun to ache in sympathy with her misery and between her eyes throbbed painfully.
‘Excuse me, miss?’ one of the men called.
‘Yes, luv?’
Glyn Thomas had only arrived at the hospital the day before. His arms and chest had been badly scalded in a boiler-room accident when his ship was docked in Liverpool. He was older than the average patient, thirty-eight, Lucy had established, declaring herself to be thoroughly smitten by his captivating, all-embracing charm, a view already shared by half a dozen other nurses. A typical Welshman in appearance, he was small-featured, with dark wavy hair, thick dark eyebrows and roguish eyes which sparkled like black diamonds.
‘Are there any books around?’ he asked Kitty.
‘I’ll try and find you a few novels before I go,’ she promised.
He shook his head, which must have hurt his chest because he winced painfully, though the wince was
quickly
followed by a brief, sweet smile. ‘Not novels; political books, biographies, that sort of thing.’
‘I’m sorry, luv. There’s none of those sort of books.’
‘Never mind, it’s just that I miss reading.’
Kitty remembered Jack Doyle had a whole shelf of books, all of which were political. ‘I know someone who’ll lend you some. I’ll bring them in on Boxing Day.’
‘Pity it won’t be tomorrow,’ he said, eyes twinkling mischievously, ‘and it’s nothing to do with the books.’
Used as she was to compliments by now, for some reason Kitty flushed bright pink.
As she wheeled the trolley back to the kitchen, she thought, ‘I’m cutting off me nose to spite me face by not offering to swop with Clara. I’ll be dead lonely tomorrow stuck at home by meself. I’d be far happier here at the hospital.’
There was no sign of Clara in the kitchen, and by the time Kitty had washed and dried the dishes and put them away and been wished a Merry Christmas by a score of nurses and SBAs, it was a quarter to four before she was able to set out in search of her.
She found Harriet alone in the empty ward, making up the beds with fresh linen. ‘She’s gone,’ she said when Kitty asked if she knew the whereabouts of Clara. ‘She had a bit of a headache, so seeing as how Bellamy’s not around, she went home early.’
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Kitty. Her own headache had become worse over the last half-hour.
‘I would have thought that news was a cause for rejoicing, not sighs. What did you want her for, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ said Kitty.
‘In that case, why did you say “oh, dear”?’ smiled Harriet. ‘Did you have a big expensive present for her?’
Kitty started to help with the beds. ‘Not likely,’ she said. She flung a sheet over a thin, rather lumpy palliasse,
and
tucked it firmly underneath. She shrugged two pillows into their cases, plumped them up and placed them at the head, flung on another sheet …
‘What’s the matter, Kitty?’ Harriet asked gently.
‘Nothing,’ Kitty said again as she grabbed two blankets.
‘You know, I have a strong desire to hit you with this pillow.’
Kitty wrinkled her nose disparagingly. ‘It’s just that I discovered me dad’s going out for the day tomorrow, that’s all, and I thought I’d swop duty with Clara.’
‘I see,’ said Harriet, and Kitty could tell from the tone of her voice that Harriet saw everything.
On Christmas morning, Jimmy Quigley spent an hour getting ready. He cleaned his teeth both before and after breakfast and spent an age having a shave and doing his hair in the living-room mirror, humming carols under his breath. He wore the maroon and yellow Paisley tie Kitty had given him that morning, and requested that she iron his best shirt again as she hadn’t got all the wrinkles out of the cuffs.
‘Where’s the clothes brush?’ he demanded, straightening his collar as he took a last pleased glance at his reflection.
‘In the same place as it was last time you asked,’ replied Kitty. She’d been watching the proceedings, doing her best not to look as miserable as she felt, which was difficult because her headache was worse today than yesterday. Not only that, her limbs throbbed painfully and felt too heavy to move. She was determined not to enquire again the identity of the ‘friend’ who’d invited him to dinner, though she was dying to know who it was. ‘If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me,’ she reasoned.
‘I’d’ve thought you’d have the chicken on by now,’ Jimmy said.
‘I might have dinner later.’ If the truth be known, Kitty didn’t feel the least bit like eating. Even the thought of the smell of roasting chicken made her feel slightly nauseous.
‘Does this mac look all right, luv?’ her dad asked when he was ready to go. ‘I haven’t worn it in years.’
She resisted the urge to say he looked a bit like the gasman in the navy-blue belted raincoat, and it definitely didn’t go with a brown felt hat. Instead she said, ‘It looks fine.’
‘I might take a look in Burtons after the holidays and buy meself an overcoat, one of those loose tweed ones. After all, now you’re working, we’re not short of a few bob, are we?’ He readjusted his hat. ‘Have you got a bag, luv?’
‘A bag? What sort of bag?’
‘A shopping bag, a big paper bag. Anything’ll do.’
‘You don’t get paper bags from the shops since the war. There’s a string bag hanging behind the door in the kitchen.’
‘Ta.’
He went upstairs and returned with the string bag bulging. Before Kitty could see what it contained, he was gone.
She made herself a pot of tea, recklessly strong in view of the fact there wasn’t much left. As soon as she’d finished the pot, she made another, took three aspirins for her headache and turned the wireless on. Later, she’d pop over and see Nan Wright. Nan was going funny lately and kept calling her ‘Ruby’, the name of the daughter who’d died long before Kitty was born. Still, she’d make sure Nan had something proper to eat, though Aggie Donovan or someone else had probably done so already.
The key was drawn through the letterbox and Kitty prayed it would be Eileen or Brenda, even though she hadn’t wanted them to know she was by herself, but it
was
Vera Dodds, the postwoman, who came in, looking majestic in a black coat with an astrakhan collar, her hair set in rigid waves especially for Christmas. She looked slightly disappointed when she saw only Kitty was there.
‘Your dad hasn’t turned up at the ale house,’ she said brightly. ‘I just wondered if he was all right, like?’
‘He had to go out for a while, something to do with football,’ Kitty lied.
‘Will he be along later?’
‘We’ll be having our dinner as soon as he gets back. I reckon it won’t be till tonight.’
Vera looked unaccountably shy. She put a little box beneath the tree on the sideboard. ‘I’ve brought him a little prezzie. It’s only a pair of cuff links.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be dead pleased.’ She’s after him, thought Kitty in astonishment.
‘Well, I’ll be getting back. Are you all right, Kitty? You don’t half look pale.’
‘I’m just tired. We were terrible busy yesterday at the hospital.’
‘I’ll love you and leave you, then. Merry Christmas, luv.’
‘Merry Christmas, Vera.’
Vera hadn’t been gone long, and Kitty was still feeling stunned at the idea of a woman chasing her dad, when she began to shiver uncontrollably; despite the blazing fire, her entire body felt as if it were encased in ice. She went upstairs and fetched an eiderdown, legs almost too stiff to move. Halfway down again, she felt the urge to vomit, and reached the kitchen just in time to throw up her breakfast in the sink.
‘Oh, God!’ she groaned, as she wrapped herself in the eiderdown and curled up in the chair. ‘If only me dad was here.’
The objects in the room turned hazy and began to float away. Then they became very clear again, but
seemed
unnaturally large. They turned hazy, grew large, turned …
Kitty began a bizarre journey. She swooped crazily through the hospital wards where the patients were all lying face down beneath their beds. Huge grinning faces kept looming in front of her and she punched them out of the way. The faces looked vaguely familiar, and she realised they were people she knew; Harriet, Lucy, Clara, Nurse Bellamy.
She came to every now and then, still shivering though by now she was covered in perspiration and boiling hot.
‘I should be in bed,’ she told herself during one of her lucid moments. She managed to struggle as far as the stairs, but her legs and her mind gave way, and she sank to her knees at the bottom where she was carried away in another nightmare. This time she was in the hospital entirely alone. There were no patients, no nurses, no doctors, just Kitty wandering through the empty building which seemed to be ticking like a bomb about to explode. Then the trees began to tap against the window as if they wanted to come in. Tap tap, tap tap …
Kitty woke up again, heart racing. The hallway was pitch dark and someone was knocking on the door, which meant it wasn’t anyone from the street, else they would have let themselves in.
‘The key,’ she called weakly. ‘Use the key.’
The knocking continued and eventually the letterbox flap was lifted and someone peered inside. ‘The key’s behind the door,’ Kitty sobbed.
A few seconds later, the door opened and a dark figure stepped inside. Kitty had no idea who it was until the figure stood on her foot, uttered a yelp of alarm and shone a torch in her face.
‘Kitty! Oh, what a good job I came,’ cried Harriet Mansell.
Harriet helped her upstairs, tucked her into bed and placed a wet flannel on her forehead. She made a hot water bottle and a cup of tea and doled out three more aspirins. As soon as Kitty was half sitting, half lying against her own pillows and the two off Jimmy’s bed, Harriet emptied her handbag on the counterpane, rummaged through the mess, found a thermometer, shook it, and stuck it in Kitty’s mouth.
‘I think I’m going to die,’ groaned Kitty after a while.
Harriet removed the thermometer. ‘High, but not dangerously so,’ she said briskly. ‘I think you’ll live. You’ve got three-day ’flu. You’ll be as fit as a fiddle by Saturday. Scores of nurses have come down with the same thing, including poor Clara Watkins. She still came in, the brave soul, despite feeling as ill as you do, though she was despatched home pretty damn quick in case the patients caught it.’
‘You mean you had to manage on your own?’
‘We were under-staffed all round, but everyone mucked in cheerfully and some of the walking wounded gave a hand. In fact, we all enjoyed ourselves tremendously.’
‘How did you know I was ill?’ Kitty asked. She was beginning to feel slightly better, not solely due to Harriet’s tender ministrations, but for knowing that someone cared about her.
‘I didn’t. I remembered you’d be alone. I’m here to invite you to a party.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go by yourself.’
Harriet looked shocked. ‘As if I’d leave you like this! I’ll stay and keep you company.’
‘But …’ began Kitty.
‘There’s no buts about it,’ Harriet said firmly. ‘Do you want to sleep or talk? I’ll go downstairs and listen to the wireless if you prefer, and you can call out if you need anything.’
‘I’d sooner talk, but I might well fall asleep in front of your eyes. I feel a bit dozy.’
‘I shan’t be offended if you do. What time will your father be home?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Kitty felt strangely embarrassed and ashamed of having been let down so badly.
‘I suppose you feel deeply hurt,’ Harriet said intuitively.
‘Not just hurt,’ Kitty replied. ‘All of a sudden, I knew I could never rely on me dad again. I was on me own from now on. It was a dead horrible feeling.’
Harriet nodded understandingly. ‘I felt the same when Hugh was killed. My parents were dead by then, my brother worked in the Foreign Office and I scarcely ever saw him. It was a scary sensation, realising I was totally alone.’
‘What did you do?’ whispered Kitty.
‘What else was there to do except get on with my life? I threw myself into my work, made friends, nearly got married on two occasions.’
‘What stopped you?’
Harriet shrugged and pulled a face. ‘They were good, decent men, both of them, but I would have been marrying for companionship, not love.’
‘You mean you turned them down because you preferred being by yourself?’ said Kitty in astonishment.
‘I did,’ smiled Harriet. ‘I wasn’t prepared to be stuck for ever with someone I didn’t sincerely care for. I’ve enjoyed my life, Kitty. It’s not a tragedy to live alone – most of the time I’ve been quite happy. It’s other people such as Clara Watkins who poke fun and make snide remarks and tell me I’m pathetic. I could have had a husband and children if I’d wanted, but I decided I didn’t, not if the husband couldn’t be Hugh.’