‘How could they?’ he kept saying. ‘How could they?’ Sitting beside him in Peter MacMillan’s flat, Helen reached for his hand. He tried to give her a smile in response, but it was a pathetic effort.
‘Aye, lad,’ said Peter sympathetically. ‘Betrayal always cuts deep.’
Helen looked anxiously up at Liz and Peter. ‘What will it mean?’ she asked. ‘For this country, I mean?’
‘It means that we can’t rely on the Russians for help,’ said Peter. ‘When it comes to the crunch – which can only be weeks away - Britain and France will have to stand alone.’ He gazed sadly at the three young people. ‘I’d hoped your generation wouldn’t have to go through this,’ he muttered, ‘but it hasnae turned out that way.’
He’d joined the ARP in the spring, persuaded by a friend that he wasn’t too old to do his bit. As the man had said: ‘The young lads will all be marched off, Peter. They’ll need old fogies like us on the home front.’
Peter MacMillan had thought of his firstborn, dead in the mud and blood and suffering of Passchendaele. He had thought of his beloved Eddie and of the Canadian grandsons he had never met... and then he had tried not to let his thoughts travel any further.
‘New medical journal?’ Liz asked, not recognizing the colourful cover of the magazine Adam was reading. She’d come on duty to find him in the kitchen of the ward to which she’d been allocated today, putting his feet up and having a break.
It had been a hell of a week. With everyone saying the war was now only days away, plans for the evacuation of hospital patients who were well enough to be moved had swung hurriedly into action. It had taken some organizing. Everybody had mucked in to help, including the medical students. Those with cars, like Adam, had helped with the transportation of the patients. Others had acted as ambulance escorts for the more serious cases. Then there had been all the blackout screens and curtains to be put up.
Slouched in an upright chair, his long legs stretched out on another, Adam had been intently reading when she had come in. Standing up to greet her, he laughed.
‘Not a new medical journal. A new comic. Well, I think it’s been out for about a year. Mario loaned it to me. It’s called
The Beano
and it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my entire life.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she replied, getting ready to help serve the lunches for the few patients who remained in the hospital. ‘I suppose you need some respite from all those great medical tomes you have to read.’
He and Mario had a long road ahead of them. Gaining their medical degree from the University wasn’t the end of the story by any means. Until they had done a year as hospital residents, living and working on the premises, they wouldn’t be considered fully qualified.
Even if they decided to become general practitioners, they had to complete several more years of hospital work. If they did their first residency in medicine, they might try to get an appointment as a junior house officer on the surgical side, or vice versa.
Mario had told everyone that his aim was to work his way up through the surgical specialities, first to a registrar’s post, then a senior registrar’s. He made no secret of his ambition to reach the top of the tree: consultant surgeon.
‘Can you imagine having those hands working on you?’ Naomi Richardson had breathed.
‘You’d be anaesthetized, you dope,’ had come the robust reply.
That daft exchange had stayed in Liz’s head longer than it should have. She was thinking about it now, while she was putting out the lunches.
‘MacMillan?’
‘Mmm?’ she responded, not bothering to turn round.
‘You wouldn’t fancy the flicks tonight, would you? I could offer you a Flash Gordon film:
Mars Attacks the Earth.
Take our minds off that other forthcoming attraction:
Germany Attacks Poor Wee Us.
’
‘Sorry, Adam,’ she said, away in a world of her own. She hadn’t even noticed the joke. That private world seemed to have only one other inhabitant: Mario Rossi. ‘I’m a bit tired. It’s been a busy week. Maybe another time? Tell the others I’m sorry, won’t you?’
She turned and gave him an absent-minded smile in apology, but he was already reading the comic again.
‘Nae bother,’ he muttered politely.
Liz smiled fondly at his bowed head. They all pronounced it the Glasgow way.
Nae bother
. It had become their catch-phrase.
Liz glanced at the clock behind Miss Gilchrist’s head. An hour to go. She wondered why the minutes seemed to slow down at the end of the day - because you were desperate to get out of the place, she supposed. Her time at the Infirmary always went past quickly. Time flies when you’re having fun.
Oh, jings, she was talking nonsense to herself. She must be tired, and the busy week wasn’t over yet.
On Friday the evacuation of thousands of children to places of safety was scheduled to begin. Mr Murray had agreed to give Liz the day off so she could help. She’d been allocated to a train taking some children down the Ayrshire coast.
A wasp flew in through the open windows of the office. Predictably, Miss Gilchrist leaped up from her chair and started having hysterics. Apart from Liz, everyone else decided to join in.
In the name of the wee man! Jumping up and down and waving your arms like some sort of demented windmill was a sure-fire way of getting stung. If you kept still the beastie usually moved on. It did, buzzing out the way it had buzzed in, and the occupants of the room settled down once again to their work.
‘Och, don’t close the windows, Miss Gilchrist. It’s real hot in here.’
That was the office boy, uncomfortable in his stiff collar and tie. Liz had overheard a snatch of conversation during her lunch break.
‘How can they be going to declare war when the weather’s so lovely and warm?’
Eric Mitchell was studying a list of ship movements on the Clyde. ‘I see the
Athenia
leaves Princes’ Dock at midday on Friday. Rats deserting the sinking ship,’ he sneered. The Donaldson Line passenger ship did a regular North Atlantic run. The demand for tickets for this particular crossing had been high.
Miss Gilchrist looked up from her work. ‘I don’t think you should say that, Mr Mitchell. Many of them will be Canadians and Americans trying to get home before it all starts. You can hardly blame them.’
I’d go if it was me, Liz thought. No question about it. She yawned. Catching a disapproving glance from Miss Gilchrist, she hastily covered her mouth with her hand. She’d better have a few early nights this week. She’d need all her energy for Friday. A train full of wee horrors, no doubt.
The appeal for helpers had been targeted at women and girls, but someone had suggested that a few men would come in handy in case the wee boys got raucous. Jim Barclay and Adam had volunteered. They’d both be on Liz’s train. Cordelia too, she expected. She and Adam usually went together.
Liz wasn’t so sure now that they were romantically involved with each other. They were very discreet about it if they were. They called each other
darling
and
sweetie
, but people like them always did. They never held hands and she had never seen them kiss except for a peck on the cheek: a friendly salute when they met or parted.
Helen still maintained that Adam fancied Liz. Liz couldn’t see it. He’d never said anything to make her think that. They were friends, that was all, sharing the same quirky sense of humour and sense of fun.
She yawned again.
‘Late night with your boyfriend, Miss MacMillan? You really ought to get more sleep, you know.’
She gave him a level look. As far as Miss Gilchrist was concerned, the comment had probably sounded harmless enough. Only Liz and Eric Mitchell understood what lay beneath the words.
Since she had stood up to him, there had been no more incidents. She was pretty sure he’d left the other girl alone too, but he managed to get in the occasional barbed comment and he still sometimes looked at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Liz supposed she could put up with that.
‘A man?’ queried Miss Gilchrist of the office boy. ‘Asking to speak to Miss MacMillan? On a private matter?’ She made it sound like a hanging offence.
‘Aye, Miss Gilchrist,’ said the office boy. ‘I mean yes,’ he hurriedly corrected. ‘Shall I show him in?’
‘Do so,’ said Miss Gilchrist with a regal inclination of her head. Adam’s mother wasn’t the only woman who could do a Queen Mary impersonation. Liz looked up with interest to see who her visitor was.
All at once the lazy autumn afternoon was vibrantly alive. Mario Rossi had walked into the room.
Twenty-two
Miss Gilchrist rose to her feet and went forward to greet Mario. Greet wasn’t perhaps the correct word. That implied a friendly, or at least civil, welcome. The senior secretary looked more like a Pole or a Czechoslovak discovering a German at the border.
Back you dog! Get off my territory!
She raised a hand as though to ward him off. Perhaps she thought she could simply push this unwanted intruder out of the office. Liz wouldn’t have put it past her to try, but stopping Mario’s confident progress into the room made her think of King Canute attempting to hold back the waves.
At least Miss Gilchrist was doing something. By the look on her face she was about to give young Mr Rossi a suitable dressing-down. Liz doubted that she herself could have strung three sensible words together at the moment. What was he doing here? And how on earth had he known where to find her during the working day?
‘I feel I should point out, young man, that personal callers are not—’
She got no further. Mario seized her hand, shook it firmly and introduced himself .
‘Good afternoon - or should it be good evening at this time of day?’ The quizzical air was quite charming. ‘I’m never quite sure. I’m Mario Rossi. And you must be...’
‘Lucy Gilchrist.’ Despite the Queen Mary act, she was finding it difficult not to sound taken aback. Liz didn’t blame her. Having the Rossi smile trained on you could rock any female’s composure and Miss Gilchrist was a woman like any other.
Well, maybe not exactly like any other ... but it was obvious that even she was finding the Italian charm difficult to resist.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Miss MacMillan’s told me so much about you - how you’ve helped her in her work, how much she looks up to you.’
‘She has?’ Miss Gilchrist swivelled round to Liz, who hastily adopted an expression of admiration. At least she hoped it conveyed admiration. It would be a pity if it made her look like a half-wit instead.
‘Miss MacMillan and I work together at the Infirmary, you see,’ Mario was explaining to Miss Gilchrist. ‘I’m a medical student. There are some things which need to be sorted out regarding the evacuation of the children on Friday. Administrative matters. I’m sure you understand.’
Miss Gilchrist asked him something. Liz didn’t quite catch it, but she heard the reply.
‘Yes, it is good to feel that one can do something to help the country during these difficult times.’
What a ham. As far as she knew, he wasn’t involved with the evacuation arrangements at all. The flattery was outrageous too, but Miss Gilchrist - could she possibly be called a sweet, pretty name like Lucy? - was drinking it in as eagerly as Mario was dishing it out.
Liz caught Eric Mitchell’s eye. She wished she hadn’t.
Ten minutes later, Liz was walking along Clyde Street with Mario. Miss Gilchrist had taken her breath away by allowing her to leave work early. In fact, she’d insisted upon it, ‘If it’s to do with the arrangements for the poor little children who have to leave their homes.’
Miss Gilchrist the humanitarian? That was a good one. Could the beaming approval of a handsome young man have anything to do with her change of heart?
You’re getting cynical, MacMillan.