Where the Heart Lies (5 page)

‘You came in late last night, me luvver,’ she said as she washed her instruments. ‘Must have been cabby out there with thar raid on.’ She grinned. ‘We’m, clucky down in the shelter, proper vitchered we’m, not getting to work dreckly. You’m go in across for a gaddle tonight?’

Julie grinned back as she mentally translated what Alison had said. It appeared she’d spent a frustrating night huddled in the basement shelter and was asking if she fancied going for a drink tonight. She liked Alison very much and there had been many a time when they’d broken the rules and sloped off with Lily for a couple of hours to a pub that was well away from the hostel and out of Matron’s sight. ‘Sorry, Ali, but I can’t tonight. I’m meeting Stan.’

Alison shrugged and carried on scrubbing her forceps. ‘See you dreckly, then,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I be ’aving no sprawl m’self by tonight, more like.’

Julie realised she meant she’d be as knackered as everyone else at the end of the day and probably wouldn’t risk it. She nodded in agreement as she glanced at her watch. She would have loved to stay and gossip, but time was of the essence if she was to get her clothes ironed and herself ready for her shift, so she reluctantly left them to it and hurried into the laundry.

There were usually two women working at the tubs, wringers and steam-press, but it was still too
early for them to arrive – unlike the cook, who lived in one of the attic rooms. Horace, the caretaker and general handyman, was probably sneaking a crafty fag in his shed while he kept a wary eye out for Matron and tried to avoid doing anything too strenuous. A bit of an old rogue, Horace appreciated a pretty face and could easily be coaxed into mending bike punctures or greasing chains, but he really preferred to be left in peace to drink his tea, smoke his fag, and catch up on how his favourite team, Arsenal, was doing in the lead-up to the Football League Cup which would be played at Wembley in May.

Julie peered through the window overlooking the vegetable plot in the back garden, saw the wisp of cigarette smoke curl from the gap at the top of the shed door, and knew her suspicions were right. ‘I don’t know what you’re paid, Horace,’ she muttered, ‘but it’s too much.’

She eyed the flat irons already lined up neatly beside the vast range that was never allowed to go out, and which provided the hot water so necessary for all the washing and sterilising. Selecting two, she placed them on the hot plate, dampened down the dress and apron, then went to fetch the ironing board which she had to wrestle to get unfolded and steady. She just hoped Matron would be too occupied checking everyone’s bags to come in and catch her. Not ironing your uniform the night before was a heinous sin – probably punishable by death.

However, there was something rather satisfying and soothing about sweeping a hot iron over damp cotton and hearing the hiss of steam and seeing the creases melt away. Ironing had never been a chore to Julie, and she’d looked forward to Tuesdays after school, when her mother had a stack of clean washing awaiting her attention. She finished the dress, sprayed some more water over the creases in her starched apron, then began to press them out carefully.

With everything put neatly away, she noted Horace was still in his shed and shook her head disapprovingly before carrying the bag, dress and apron back upstairs to the room she shared on the second floor.

It was a large square room with a high ceiling and a big bay window which overlooked the street and the Mothers’ Laying-in Hospital on the other side. In the summer the sun streamed through the criss-cross taping of the window, but on this cold, blustery day it gave no cheer at all, and the leafless branches of the nearby tree tapped plaintively against the glass.

Julie eyed the six iron bedsteads, each of which had a wooden locker and an uncomfortable chair beside it. The beds had been made neatly, the crisp sheets and rather rough brown blankets tucked in so tightly a penny could be bounced off them. There was nothing really homely about the place, just a few photographs, hairbrushes, books and tiny dishes of cheap jewellery on the tops of some of the lockers. Their clothes had to be hung in the two vast
wardrobes, their shoes neatly placed in the bottom, hats and handbags placed on the shelf at the top. Everything else had to go in the lockers, and it was not permitted to put pictures on the walls, or personalise the beds with colourful quilts, eiderdowns or pretty pillows. It was like all the nurses’ homes she’d lived in since leaving Stepney, and she suspected it probably wasn’t much more comfortable than the cells in Wandsworth prison.

She smothered a vast yawn, placed the bag on her chair, and hung the freshly ironed dress and apron on a hanger over the wardrobe doorknob. Time was disappearing fast and she needed to get changed. With the others all downstairs or out on their rounds, she had the room to herself for once – not that it mattered a jot, she was used to undressing in a crowded room, for she’d shared with her two sisters until Eileen had suddenly left home.

Pondering on why Eileen had gone, she pulled off her warm skirt and sweater. She’d been very young at the time and hadn’t understood much of what was going on, other than that Eileen and Mum and Dad were having a terrible row that morning. She’d wanted to listen in, but her mum had caught her earwigging and sent her off to buy a loaf of bread. By the time she’d returned home, Eileen was gone, along with everything she’d owned.

Julie now suspected it had something to do with the man Eileen had been seeing, for she could remember her dad going on about how he wouldn’t
trust him to tell him the time of day. Perhaps Eileen had run off with him and didn’t dare show her face again?

‘It’s all old history,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t expect I’ll ever really know the truth of it, and Mum certainly ain’t telling.’ She shook her head as if to put these idle thoughts aside, and got on with changing.

Slipping out of her camisole and dainty panties, she fastened her suspender belt round her waist and then pulled on the enormous and much-reviled regulation knickers that were jokingly – and aptly – called ‘blackouts’. Made of sturdy black material, they eclipsed everything from hip to midriff and were as ugly as sin. Fastening her regular issue brassiere – which was just as much a passion-killer as the knickers – she then carefully rolled on the thick black stockings which she’d had to darn painstakingly more than once.

Stockings were fiercely rationed by Matron and therefore had to be treated with great care and respect if the owner was not to incur her wrath. But the nature of the work meant they were often snagged or laddered, and it was the very devil to keep them looking respectable.

The blue striped, shapeless dress fell to regulation length below Julie’s knees, and it felt fresh and crisp as she did up the buttons, adjusted the soft white collar and fastened the matching belt. Slipping on the sturdy black shoes, she tied the laces and gave them a swift dust with her dry flannel in the hope
Matron wouldn’t spot the fact they hadn’t been polished this morning.

Once her hair had been brushed and held back with combs, she put on her apron, pinned her watch to the bib front and reached for her cap. It wasn’t one of the neat, rather flirtatious little white caps worn by the nurses on the hospital wards, but rather resembled something the army troops might wear in a desert storm. Tight to the head, the starched linen was pulled severely back over the ears, then hung in folds over the nape of the neck – it was obvious why it had earned the nickname of ‘storm cap’.

Julie eyed her reflection in the wardrobe mirror as she pinned the Queen’s badge on her cap, slipped the cord holding the second badge round her neck so it hung between the edges of her collar, and then made sure her stocking seams were straight. She still got a thrill from knowing how much she’d achieved since leaving home, and would never take the honour of being a highly qualified nurse lightly or for granted.

She gave herself a cheery smile before reaching for her overcoat, blue scarf and gloves. Suitably clad to meet the world outside the hostel, she picked up her bag, tin hat and gas-mask box and went down to Matron’s office to discuss her schedule for the day.

As Julie cycled on her rounds through the narrow streets and alleyways of Whitechapel, she was greeted cheerfully by the women who stood gossiping
on their doorsteps, fags stuck to bottom lips, curlers glinting beneath their headscarves. The men working to shore up the crumbling buildings or heading for their work at the docks tipped their hats, and the young boys who were eagerly searching for pieces of shrapnel among the rubble gave her cheeky grins. These treasures were carefully guarded, especially if the finder had been lucky enough to discover an enemy belt buckle or badge, or a piece of parachute, and could be used as barter for cigarette cards or comics.

Julie cheerfully waved back, stopped and admired the babies and the latest pieces of shrapnel, and joined in the usual moans over Gerry’s bombing campaign, the rationing and the weather. Having left Sadie and her new daughter, who’d been called Julie in her honour, she headed for the wider, tree-lined streets of Shoreditch and the terraced house where Franny rented a room.

None of these houses had an inside bathroom or lavatory, but it was a better area altogether, with tiny front gardens, tiled paths leading to the front doors and net curtains hanging at the windows. Bill was clearly making sure Franny was comfortable while she waited for him to come home, and Julie blessed him for it. The poor man had enough to worry about with fighting the Germans and Italians in North Africa, without having Franny on his mind all the time.

She was approaching Franny’s place when she
recognised the young policeman hurrying across the road. Her pulse raced as she saw him wave and smile. He was so big and handsome, and so full of energy, that she felt quite small and helpless when he was around. At twenty-seven, Stanley Rudge was quite a catch, and Julie still couldn’t believe her luck, for he could have had his pick from the girls who’d flocked around him down Stepney way.

‘Stan,’ she breathed, ‘what a lovely surprise. I didn’t realise this was part of your beat.’

‘It’s not usually, but I knew you’d be visiting Franny today, so I got the desk sergeant to change things about.’ His dark eyes looked down at her from beneath the helmet as he reached for her gloved hand.

Julie felt her heart thudding fit to bust. ‘That’s nice,’ she said softly, unable to think of anything much when he looked at her in that way.

‘I want to kiss you,’ he murmured, his expression becoming intent as he leaned towards her.

Julie blushed scarlet and looked away. ‘Not here,’ she hissed, stifling a giggle, ‘and definitely not when we’re both in uniform, Stan. You should know better.’

‘Why not? It’s a free country, ain’t it?’

She gave the street a quick, nervous glance. ‘Half the neighbourhood’s probably watching behind them net curtains, and it’ll get back to Matron and your chief inspector.’

‘I don’t care,’ he said, his voice low and full of passion. ‘There’s nothing wrong with giving my
girl a kiss if I want to.’ He grabbed her chin and planted a kiss on her lips before she could reply.

Julie melted, her senses swimming for a moment before she drew back sharply. ‘You’ll get us both into trouble,’ she stuttered, all of a dither, ‘and you won’t get your promotion.’

He shot her a cheeky smile. ‘But I got me kiss, though, didn’t I? Quite set me up for the rest of the day, it ’as.’ He took another step towards her. ‘’Ow about another?’

Julie giggled and shoved him back. ‘Get on with you, Stanley Rudge. I’ve got work to do, and so have you. I’ll see you tonight, all being well.’

He gave an exaggerated sigh and tried to look woebegone. ‘I suppose I’ll just ’ave to wait until then, but a man could die of wanting, Julie,’ he said, his twinkling eyes giving the lie to his demeanour.

‘Your old flannel don’t work on me,’ she said, stifling the giggles again. ‘Get on and catch a few criminals and let me finish me rounds. I’ll see you at the Bull.’

‘I’ll be waiting, pining, me ’eart aching for the moment you walk through the door.’ He rolled his eyes dramatically as he clutched his heart.

Julie burst out laughing. ‘Blimey,’ she managed, ‘you don’t ’alf go on, Stan. You should be on the flaming stage.’

She was still laughing as she cycled away from him, and when she reached Franny’s place, she looked back to find he was still standing in the
middle of the street. Giving him a wave, she took her bag and let herself into the house.

The neat square hallway smelled of furniture polish – and oddly, burnt toast. The landlady, Mrs Bessell, must be out, for she was usually watching from her window and would shoot out of her door the minute she heard the key turn. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have witnessed that little scene with Stan, for if she had, it would be round the neighbourhood in a flash.

Julie could hear music as she ran up the carpeted stairs to the first floor, which had been divided into three small self-contained rooms. As the other two rooms were let to office workers, she realised Franny must be listening to the ‘Workers’ Playtime’ programme on the wireless. She tapped on the door and pushed it open. ‘It’s only me, Franny,’ she said softly.

Franny was lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, knitting and magazines scattered about her as she slept beneath the patchwork quilt their mother had made for her own bed many years before. The room was bathed in the weak sunlight that streamed through the window and glinted in Franny’s hair, which lay tangled about her little face.

She looked like an elfin child, Julie thought fondly as she set her bag down on the small table by the bed and regarded the room. It was just big enough for the bed, table, chest of drawers and an armchair, and it had a gas fire and a two-ring electric hot plate to cook on. There was a box stocked with cans and
packets under the table, along with a kettle, saucepan, frying pan and cutlery.

A chipped china plate and a cup and saucer sat ready by the kettle, which made Julie’s heart ache for the loneliness her sister must be suffering. If only things had been different, she thought, and the gossips hadn’t frightened her away with their nasty sharp tongues; Franny should have been with her family where she belonged, not living with strangers during the most difficult time for any woman. But that was the way of things in these times, and Franny would not be the last girl forced from her home because she’d made a mistake and a twist of fate had meant there was no wedding ring to give her respectability.