Where the Heart Lies (4 page)

Julie discovered that Val used her gas-mask box as a handbag, keeping her fags, a small bottle of gin and a lipstick and powder compact nestled alongside
the mask. She refused the offer of a slug of gin, while Val took regular sips and lit one cigarette after another. But as the time dragged by, Julie began to wish she could follow the other woman’s example, for a nip of gin would buck her up no end, and perhaps quell her fear of cramped, dark hidey-holes.

When the all-clear finally sounded, Julie switched her torch back on and looked at the watch pinned to her apron. They’d only been sitting there for two hours. It had felt much longer.

‘Blimey,’ muttered Val as she crushed yet another fag-end under her shoe, ‘I can think of better ways to spend the bleedin’ night.’ She eased back the sheet and looked fondly at Sadie and the baby and grinned as she realised they’d both fallen asleep. ‘Lucky for some, eh? I wish I could sleep through that racket, and no mistake.’

‘Come on, Val,’ said Julie as she crawled out of the recess, eased her back and tried to get the blood flowing in her legs again. ‘We need to get her upstairs and into bed.’

It took much longer to negotiate the many stairs on the way up, for there were bits of wood and lumps of plaster and concrete lying in wait to trip them up and block their way. Finally they reached the fourth-floor landing to discover that there had been no real damage to the old building and thankfully placed the mattress back on the bed.

The room didn’t look much different from when they’d left, but the window was shattered and
everything seemed to be covered with a coating of grey dust.

‘I’ll clean the place up, never you mind, ducky,’ said Val. ‘You see to Sadie and the sprog.’

While Val stirred the dust with a cloth and broom and gathered up the shattered glass, Julie eased Sadie into the overstuffed, sagging chair and shook out the dust from the once-clean sheets that Val had brought. She made the bed then poured the last of the water into the bowl. Having cleaned the baby with a damp swab, she dressed her again in the clothes that were far too big for such a tiny mite, and handed her to Val while she helped Sadie wash and change into one of her husband’s old shirts that passed for a nightgown.

Once Sadie was back in bed, she gently placed the baby in her arms and looked down tenderly at the little girl she’d helped bring into the world. Like all the babies born in this part of town, this little one faced a tough life, but she looked as if she was well on the way to coping, for she was asleep still, which was quite remarkable considering the terrible noise she’d been born into.

Once mother and daughter were comfortably settled, Julie packed her things away again and reached for her coat.

‘Thanks ever so, Sister,’ said Sadie, her eyes bright with tears as she cuddled her baby, the tiny fingers wrapped tightly round her thumb.

‘My pleasure,’ Julie replied with a soft smile. ‘I’ll
come back tomorrow to check you over, and then every day for the next two weeks. Try and get some rest, and keep off the gin, Sadie. It will make your baby sick as you’re breastfeeding, and you don’t want that, do you?’

Sadie shook her head, her gaze darting to her mother who had given up on the cleaning and was having a surreptitious swig out of her gin bottle.

‘It’s fer me nerves,’ Val explained. ‘Don’t you worry, Sister, I’ll see ’er right, and once the rest of the family get ’ere, she won’t ’ave to lift a finger.’

Julie knew that Sadie and Val came from an enormous family that spanned several generations of Whitechapel inhabitants who lived within shouting distance of one another, so she had no fear that Sadie would be left to struggle alone. ‘I expect they’re on their way now the all-clear has sounded,’ she replied as she wrapped the scarf round her neck and pulled on her gloves.

‘Yeah,’ said Val, ‘and Mum will make us all a cuppa. Sadie must be gagging for one by now.’ She cocked her head. ‘You will stay and ’ave a cuppa with us, won’t you?’

The thought of a cup of proper East End tea, so strong and stewed you could stand a spoon up in it, was very tempting, but Julie shook her head. ‘Sorry, Val, but I have to get back.’ She turned to Sadie. ‘Now, you’ve got the extra food and milk stamps, haven’t you? You need to keep your strength up now you’re breastfeeding.’

Sadie nodded and sleepily nestled down with her baby against the lumpy pillows as Val gently drew the thin blanket over her shoulders.

Julie’s heart swelled. Every birth was a miracle, and even in these poorest of surroundings it was clear that Sadie loved her baby and would do her best for it. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she murmured, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

THE LARGE VICTORIAN
building in Shoreditch had started life as a private house before becoming a hostel for the young ladies who worked as clerks and typists in the nearby office blocks. Now the downstairs rooms had been turned into a clinic, with examination areas, a vast kitchen and dining room, a sluice, a laundry and a locked storeroom which housed the precious medical supplies, replacement uniforms and spare parts for the many bicycles.

Matron’s office was on the first floor, where she supervised and controlled every moment of the thirty nurses and auxiliaries’ working day, for they were not attached to a particular hospital or clinic, and worked alongside doctors from many different practices.

Matron Irene Starkey was a stickler for rules, and she didn’t put up with any nonsense from the young women who lived in the nurses’ hostel, regardless of their age, background or experience. Uniform was to be worn except when off duty; everyone had to be in by ten at night unless out on call; rooms were to be kept tidy, beds made before breakfast, and nursing equipment to be in pristine order at all times.

However, Julie and the others had soon come to realise that Matron Starkey’s strict code was in no way vindictive for – like all the other matrons they’d encountered during their careers – it was clear she merely wanted the best standards of hygiene and discipline to be upheld so her nurses and volunteer aides could work with pride and efficiency, their patients safe in the knowledge they were getting the very best care.

Matron Starkey might run the place like a sergeant major, but she was a wise old bird, for she never allowed her nurses to work in the same area of squalor for more than three months at a time. Her reasoning was that they’d all learned during their hospital training to be proficient and knowledgeable on different wards. In the same way, each district exposed them to all types of homes and families and invaluable new experiences.

Julie’s initial training had taken four long years of battling prejudice and low expectation from those in charge before she’d qualified. But by the time she’d taken the six months’ midwifery course at the City of London Maternity Hospital in Islington, she’d learned to soften her Cockney accent and had become accepted. After a short time working there, she went on to complete another six months’ training as a Queen’s Nurse. She’d passed her exams with flying colours the previous September, becoming No. 16,988 on the Queen’s Roll, and could add QN to her SRN qualifications and earn a very decent
salary. She now proudly wore a Queen’s badge on her cap and another on a cord at her neck. For an East End girl, she’d done extremely well.

Julie’s time in the slums of Shoreditch, Whitechapel, Holborn and Bethnal Green, and indeed, her own Stepney background, had taught her far more than she could ever learn from a textbook. She’d become resourceful and versatile, learning to improvise and be resilient – and to listen to her patients and not treat them just as cases to be dealt with and recorded in her book. Her work often entailed washing hair, cutting nails and cleaning dentures, or teaching someone how to brush their teeth, get rid of head lice, and bathe properly, encouraging them to use the public baths more frequently to combat the infections that were rife in the slums.

Julie had been waylaid by Sadie’s family after her delivery, and then by the warden who needed help with some of the casualties. She’d spent another two hours dressing wounds inflicted by flying shrapnel and falling masonry, and had then helped one poor, bewildered old man find his way back home. She’d returned to the hostel just before dawn and had wearily traipsed up the stairs and tiptoed into the bedroom to drag off her coat and cap, kick off her shoes, and collapse on her bed. She’d fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Julie therefore wasn’t feeling at her best as she and Lily clattered down the stairs the next morning
in their ordinary clothes with their bags. She’d had very little sleep before being woken for breakfast, and despite the two cups of strong tea she’d had with her porridge, she still felt slightly disorientated and rumpled.

‘I ’ate Mondays,’ muttered Lily as she followed Julie into the deserted sluice. It seemed they were the first down for the Monday morning ritual of cleaning their bags and instruments.

They placed their bags on the scrubbed table and opened them before taking the soap, nail brush and towel from the outside pocket. ‘So do I,’ muttered Julie, as she joined her friend at the sink and vigorously washed her hands and nails in the hot water. ‘I feel really uncomfortable asking people how much money they’ve got and how they spend it when it’s clear they’re struggling. Two and sixpence is a lot to pay, even if you are earning, and although some only have to pay thruppence for medical care, it can still make a big difference to the household bills.’

‘I can barely look them in the eye when I go round with me receipt book and money tin.’ Lily began to unpack her bag, setting the bottles, jars and tins and packets of gauze and sterilised dressings on the disinfected table.

‘I’m always relieved when a new patient either has a provident scheme to pay the bill or simply ain’t got two pennies to rub together,’ replied Julie with a sigh. ‘At least the very poorest don’t have to pay – but it’s horrible turning up on the doorstep
rattling me tin after some poor woman’s just collected her wages after a long week’s slog in a factory.’

‘I remember me mum scrabbling about for pennies when the district nurse called. Dad likes ’is drink, and she was forever going through ’is pockets when ’e’d passed out.’ Lily grinned. ‘’E never knew, and never found the tin she’d hidden up the chimney, neither. There was only ever a few coppers in it, but they was a lifesaver most weeks.’

Julie nodded with understanding, although things had been very different in her house. Bert Harris always came straight home with his pay packet and handed it to Flo, who took what she needed and left him enough for his beer, pipe tobacco, and nightly copy of the
Evening Standard
.

They worked in silence for a while, scrupulously washing all their instruments in hot soapy water before replenishing the stocks in their bottles, jars and tins, and changing the white cotton lining in the bag for a clean one. Then, when everything was neat and tidy, they set to work polishing the black leather bags with Cherry Blossom boot polish until they shone.

‘How’s your Franny coming along? She looked about to pop when I saw her the other day.’

‘I called in on her yesterday morning, and yes, she’s got a couple of weeks to go, but she’s not doing badly considering. She’s had to stop work, ’cos she’s finding it too hard to stand up all day at the factory. But I’ve been promised a bed at the hospital
tomorrow, so I’ll be getting her in there before lunchtime.’

‘It must be worrying for you, what with her ’eart and everything.’

‘It is,’ Julie replied, the thought of everything that could go wrong still uppermost in her mind. She determinedly blocked it all out. ‘Franny’s tougher than she looks, and as long as there are no complications, I reckon she’ll do all right.’

Julie watched as Lily set her bag aside, washed her hands and carefully patted her shining blonde hair. With her heart-shaped face and big blue eyes, Lily always managed to look glamorous, even in an old jumper and skirt and with no make-up to speak of, and Julie felt a touch of envy. No one would ever think of Julie Harris as being glamorous; she was too thin, her hair was an indeterminate brown and fell as straight as a poker, and her nose wasn’t half as elegant as Lily’s. But her brown eyes were her saving grace; Stan had told her how lovely they were the other night when they’d gone dancing at the Regency.

She smiled softly at the memory, finished polishing the bag and went to wash her hands again. The engagement ring would stay on the chain around her neck until she was next off duty, for it would only get damaged with so much washing, and diamonds, no matter how small, could tear a hole in a rubber glove as quick as blink.

‘I’m on duty in less than an hour and I haven’t
ironed me spare uniform, so I must do it before Matron goes on the warpath.’ Ruefully, Julie eyed the crumpled dress and apron she’d brought down with her, and which now resembled something dragged from the bottom of a laundry basket. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

‘Right oh,’ said Lily cheerfully. ‘I’m off to learn the joys of how to take out sutures and clean leg ulcers and boils with Nurse Bradley today, so I probably won’t see you until tonight.’ She strolled off just as several other nurses and volunteers bustled into the sluice and the noise level rose as taps were turned on and delicious gossip was exchanged.

The thirty women who lived at the hostel came from diverse backgrounds and experience, ageing from between eighteen to mid-forties. Among those in the sluice this morning was little Doris who came from Camden, Ida from Camberley, and the posh Clarice, whose family owned half of Mayfair, but could muck in very happily no matter how unpleasant the task. Maud and Jane were spinster sisters who always worked side by side and were old hands at nursing in the roughest areas of London.

And then there was Alison, the liveliest of them all, and the usual source of any mischief. A country girl who’d come up from Cornwall to train as a midwife, Alison had never quite lost the wholesome creaminess to her skin, the rosy apples in her cheeks, or the sparkle in her eye – neither had she lost her West Country burr, and it was often a source of
bewilderment and amusement amongst her East End patients as well as her colleagues.