Cousins at War Page 16

  ‘I can get used to anything.’ He looked briefly across the table at Queenie. ‘Anything at all,’ he said pointedly and was pleased to see her smile slip a fraction. ‘I think I’ll take Olive to the Palais tonight. She said in one letter she was kept busy writing theses, whatever they are, and she’ll be glad of a break.’

  Gracie turned round from the cooker. ‘Will you not be too tired tonight?’ She was surprised and puzzled that he hadn’t invited Queenie first as he usually did but it would take a weight off her mind if he stopped asking Olive as well.

  ‘I think I’ll manage a few turns round the floor.’

  ‘I’m off, folks.’ Joe’s departure left a deathly silence behind but at last, Gracie said, ‘Hetty was saying Olive’s been acting kind of funny this week. Did you write something to annoy her?’

  Neil shook his head, ‘Not guilty. I didn’t even answer her last letter.’ How could he answer it, when it had contained the most devastating information he’d ever had?

  ‘Maybe that’s it but you should have written to her. It’s bad manners not to answer when somebody writes to you.’

  ‘She’s not noted for good manners herself, is she?’

  ‘That’s different. Her mother spoiled her, but you’ve been brought up to consider other people’s feelings.’

  Neil let his eyes rest harshly on Queenie for a second, ‘I do, when they consider mine.’

  Gracie kept probing, ‘Did she write something daft?’

  ‘No, she just passed on some . . . information.’ He knew that his mother wouldn’t understand what he meant but Queenie might and he was past caring what anyone thought.

  He had to force down the bacon and eggs and when Queenie said, ‘I’ll have to go,’ he didn’t even raise his head.

  Gracie said, ‘Cheerio, lass,’ then waited until the girl went out before she sat down opposite her son. ‘What’s going on, Neil? I can tell something’s bothering you.’

  ‘Nothing’s bothering me,’ he snapped. ‘Can I not go out with Olive on my first night home without you quizzing me?’

  ‘I’m your mother, remember. I can read you like a book.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong page this time.’

  ‘You didn’t ask Queenie. You didn’t even speak to her and she’ll be wondering why.’

  ‘I think she’ll know why.’

  Deciding that it was useless, Gracie gave up. Queenie must have done something last time to make Neil angry but it was clear that he wasn’t going to speak about it. ‘Patsy’ll be in shortly. She’s been on night duty.’

  Neil’s teatime phonecall made Olive exultant. Her scheme had worked – he had finished with Queenie. She had been afraid that she had laid it on too strongly in her letter, that he hadn’t believed her, then she had worried in case he would demand a showdown between her and Queenie – bring them face to face to find out the truth – but he seemed to have taken her word for it. He was hers again, hers alone, but it might be best to go carefully for a while. It would take time for him to get over it but she was in no hurry now.

  That night, Olive set out to make sure that Neil enjoyed himself. He was a little quiet at first but some of the jokes she’d heard her fellow students bandying about had him laughing in no time and she took great care not to say anything to upset him. It was heaven to feel secure without the spectre of Queenie looming up between them. She kept the atmosphere light, even when he saw her home, and her reward came when they stood at her door. ‘OK for Friday, as well?’ he smiled, so she smiled back and said, ‘OK.’ Nothing could have been easier, and he hadn’t mentioned her letter once.

  It was so unfair, Queenie thought. Why had Neil treated her like that when he was home? He’d taken Olive out three times and he had practically ignored her apart from passing a few remarks that she didn’t understand. He had been so nice when he was home in March, so what could have happened in three months to change him? Then she remembered him saying to his mother, in a peculiar sneery way, that Olive had given him some information. Was it possible that Olive had seen her with Philip Rennie and told Neil in a letter? Philip was the only boy she had spoken to since Callum Birnie. It had been a few weeks ago, when she’d had to go back to school for a debate, and Cathie Leys had asked her to walk home with her for company. Although it had been bucketing rain, they had gone through Belmont Street on to Union Street and crossed to the other side because Cathie lived at the foot of the steps beside Boots the chemist. Stupidly, because they were already soaked, they had stood talking for a while and when Cathie left, Philip had caught up with her and they’d walked as far as the Castlegate together.

  There had been nothing more in it, and even if it was what Olive had told Neil, surely he would have given her a chance to explain – he knew her better than to believe she would go out with another boy. Queenie was sure that the information he’d mentioned had been about her and was the reason for his indifference to her, and there was nothing else Olive could have told him . . . unless she had invented something, which was not beyond the realms of possibility.

  In late June, Neil was testing a Norton, his ears geared, for the first mile or two to listening for rattles or grinding noises but the engine was going so smoothly that his thoughts started to wander. He knew well enough why he couldn’t enjoy himself with girls like Alf did, as he’d done himself at one time, but it was stupid to let Queenie spoil things for him. She was old news, bad news. He should forget her as Alf had advised, but her sweet face kept coming into his mind and it was agony to remember that she belonged to somebody else. He couldn’t put it out of his mind. In bed at night, even during the day when he was working on an engine, he was looking into the Adelphi in Aberdeen and longing to knock hell out of the faceless boy who was touching her.

  Completely engrossed in his tortured thoughts, Neil would not have noticed if the world had come to an end, for it had come to an end for him weeks ago. He had been along the road so often that he knew it like the back of his hand, but with his concentration gone, he didn’t see the huge oil drum that had dropped off a lorry a short time before. He only felt the jolt of the impact, heard the scrunch of metal and knew no more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gracie’s fears that Patsy would be leaving the nest were laid to rest when her daughter was accepted for training in Aberdeen at Foresterhill Hospital. It did mean that the girl had to be away from home if she was on night duty but otherwise it wasn’t so different from when she was working in the office.

  Patsy, of course, did not tell her mother about the hardships she had to suffer as a probationer, and it was Queenie who was her confidante. ‘You wouldn’t believe how strict the sisters and staff nurses are,’ she told her cousin one night. ‘Before any of the doctors or consultants make their rounds, the beds have to be as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Once they’re made, we’ve to watch like hawks in case the patients move and make creases in the top covers. You’d think it was our fault, though we don’t get told off until after the doctor’s away.’

  ‘Why don’t you say it was the patient that did it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference. Everything we do is wrong. If we get a stain on our aprons, it’s a crime, and we’ve to go and change aprons and cuffs every time the doctors come round, whether they’re dirty or not. I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing going in for nursing. I’m just a glorified wardmaid running with bedpans, cleaning up sickness and up to my elbows in hot water most of the time, but it can’t last for ever.’

  ‘At least you’re doing something,’ Queenie sighed. ‘I’m at a loose end just now. All the exams are past but I won’t know if I’ll be going to varsity until the results come out in July. I hope, sometimes, that I don’t pass. I’d go into an office till April, when I’ll be eighteen, then I’d go into the forces.’

  Patsy laughed, ‘Over Mum’s dead body, if I know her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being a WAAF. I thought Raymond looked quite smart in his RAF uniform when he was home after
his training.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re falling for him?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Queenie hesitated, then said, ‘It’s Neil I care for and I thought he felt the same about me until he was here last time. Didn’t you notice how he avoided speaking to me? I don’t know why he changed, but I’ve a sneaking feeling Olive had a lot to do with it.’

  ‘There’s been something queer about her for a while,’ Patsy said, thoughtfully. ‘Since before Raymond went away first, and I thought they were kind of wary with each other all the time he was home. Maybe he’s not scared to tell her what he thinks of her nowadays.’

  ‘Maybe she’s jealous of him being in the RAF?’

  ‘She’d never want to go into the forces,’ Patsy smiled. ‘She couldn’t stand it, she’s had things too easy.’

  Why was he lying on the ground? How long had he been here? What had happened? Lifting his head a fraction – it was agony to move – Neil saw the crumpled Norton on the opposite bank and it all came back to him. It was funny how he had been flung one way in the accident and the bike the other, was that how it always happened? But what had hit him? No other vehicle was in his line of vision, so he swivelled his eyes to the left, then right, and at last he spotted the cause of the trouble – a huge oil drum, dented but not leaking as far as he could tell. The motor bike had come off worse – bits of it were scattered all over the place. He’d be for the high jump when he got back to camp, if he ever got back. His entire body was one excruciating ache and the slightest movement of his legs . . .

  He slipped into unconsciousness again and when he came round for the second time he decided it would be best to lie still. He had no idea how badly he was hurt but this road was usually quite busy, so somebody should come along soon. He strained his ears for the sound of traffic, but all he heard was a grasshopper clicking away like mad, and the cooing of a wood pigeon calling to its mate. The sun was beating down on him – he could end up with sunstroke, as well as everything else.

  Think. He must keep thinking, about anything at all, to keep him from drifting away again. Surely Alf would be wondering why he hadn’t gone back? Yes, he’d come looking and if he didn’t come himself he’d send somebody else. Good old Alf! But . . . what if he was too busy to notice? The Scammel he was working on was a hefty job. It could take hours. Damn and blast it! Why didn’t anybody come? He would still be here tomorrow at this rate.

  The sweat trickling down his face annoyed him suddenly, so he made to wipe it away. His right arm was so stiff that it was an effort to raise it but he finally succeeded. Oh God, it wasn’t sweat – it was blood! Well, it wasn’t surprising. He was likely a bloody mess all over . . . a bloody mess, that’s a good one! The whole business was a bloody mess. How bad was he? His right arm was working – just – but what about his left? Lifting it was a bit tricky but he didn’t think it was broken. He would try his legs again. Oh no, he couldn’t move them! Were they paralysed? No, he wouldn’t feel that terrible pain if they were paralysed. Smashed or broken?

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’

  It was a girl’s voice, soft and gentle. Whoever she was, she was as welcome as the flowers in May. Neil tried to focus his eyes properly but it was too much of an effort so he gave up.

  ‘Your face is cut, but there’s so much blood it’s difficult to know where. I’ll mop it up with my hankie so I can see.’

  ‘I . . . think . . . my legs . . . are busted.’ Trying to move them, he passed out again and when he resurfaced, the girl was still intent on cleaning the blood from his face. He could see her better now, in close up. Her skin was creamy peach shading into the delicate rose of her cheeks; her hair, almost the colour of burnished copper, was smooth and curling under at the ends; her eyes, looking briefly into his before they dropped to attend to his wounds again, were the darkest brown he had ever seen. What an angel! But he wasn’t really interested in girls, he reminded himself, not in any serious way . . . not after . . .

  The gentle wiping touched a raw spot. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘I’m sorry. Your cheek is badly cut, as well as your nose. I didn’t see it at first. Look, I’ve got my bike. Will you be all right if I go and phone for an ambulance? I won’t be long.’

  He was about to say that he’d be fine when a rumbling noise made him stop to listen and the girl jumped to her feet. ‘It’s a lorry. I’ll ask the driver to get them to send an ambulance when he gets back to camp.’

  That thing’ll never make it back to camp, Neil thought – it was rattling like an old tin can – but she was already in the middle of the road flagging it down with both hands. When it drew up, she talked excitedly to the driver who jumped out and came over to the side. ‘What’s up, mate? Have an accident?’

  Neil managed a grin. ‘No thanks, I’ve just . . .

  ‘. . . had one,’ finished the driver, laughing. ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He thinks his legs are broken,’ the girl put in.

  ‘I’d better not try moving you then. I’ll get them to send an ambulance.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Neil relaxed as the lorry moved off. He’d likely have a long wait, knowing the army, but he couldn’t get up and walk away. He was as weak as a new-born kitten, his head was pounding like a sledgehammer and he was desperately cold.

  ‘You’re shivering.’ The girl looked down compassionately. ‘I suppose it’s shock. I’d better wait till the ambulance comes.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ But his protest was unconvincing.

  ‘Don’t argue. By the way, what’s your name?’

  ‘Neil Ferris.’

  ‘I’m Freda Cuthbert. My dad has the market garden about half a mile up the road.’

  ‘I’ve . . . seen . . .’ Reaction had caught up on him now, making it difficult to think clearly enough to speak coherently.

  Noticing his discomfort, Freda kept talking, ‘I work with my dad, but I’ve just come from his sister’s. She’s sprained her ankle, and she phoned to ask if I’d take her some potatoes. She’s not too bad, really, but she can’t put any weight on her foot so I tidied up a bit, and peeled a few of the spuds. She had some meat left from yesterday so I didn’t need to cook for her and she wouldn’t let me do anything else.’

  She paused briefly, obviously thinking what else to say. ‘I’d better tell you something about myself, now. I’ll be twenty in August, I’ve still got all my own teeth, and I’ve never had a perm. I registered along with my age group but I’m working on the land already so they didn’t want me.’

  She stopped again to look at him. ‘I’m not bothering you, am I?’ His faint headshake reassured her. ‘I don’t usually talk so much but I was afraid for a while there that you were going to pass out on me again. You’re not, are you? Good. I don’t go out much in the evenings, though my dad’s always telling me I should go to the dances. I’m a bit shy, you see. Maybe you’ll find this hard to believe but I’ve never spoken to a stranger before. Some of the soldiers whistle at me if they see me in the fields and one or two stop and try to chat me up but I pretend not to hear, and they go away.’

  Neil wondered why her voice was fading and prayed that he wasn’t going to sink under again, but that wasn’t what it was. In a great, shaming rush, his stomach gave up its contents and he was unable to keep it back. Worse, it was so unexpected that he had no time to turn his head, even if he could, which was doubtful, so the vomit went all down his front.

  When he stopped retching, Freda laid a cool, soothing hand on his clammy brow. ‘Do you feel better now?’ He was too exhausted even to nod, so she said, ‘I’ll clean you up, but my hankie’s covered with blood, so I’ll have to take yours, wherever it is. Don’t move, Neil, I’ll find it.’

  The breast pocket of his overalls yielded only bits of paper, scraps of pencils and a few washers, so she dug her hand into his left trouser pocket but had to try the other one before she pulled out a grubby, khaki handkerchief. ‘It’s a bit oily, but I don’t suppose it’ll matter.’


  Before she started, she used some dock leaves to get off the worst of the mess, then rubbed hard with the handkerchief for a few minutes. ‘That’ll have to do. The smell won’t go away until your boiler suit’s had a good wash.’

  The ambulance arrived then, and she stood aside until the two men lifted him on to a stretcher, but the movement jarred him so much that he lost consciousness once again.

  He came round in hospital. At first, his mind was a blur but little by little it came back to him – the crash, the pain, the oil drum, the girl. The girl? Was she real, or was she part of a delirious dream he’d had? No, she was definitely real. She’d said her name was Freda Cuthbert and she stayed with him until the ambulance came, talking, but he couldn’t remember much of what she’d said. A market garden? Her father owned the market garden along the road. It was funny he’d never seen her but he would likely have been going too fast to notice. He would have to go and thank her once he was out of here.

  ‘You’re with us now, are you?’ A smiling young nurse, her red cheeks shining, was standing beside him. ‘Your legs have been set, one was broken in three places, but don’t try to move much yet. Your whole body’s had a shake-up, and you’ve had a nasty crack on your nose. That’s the bad news, but the good news is that your girlfriend’s waiting to see you. Will I send her in?’

  ‘My girlfriend?’

  He looked so puzzled that the nurse laughed. ‘She didn’t say she was your girlfriend, I just thought she must be for she’s been here for hours. Her name’s Freda, if that means anything?’

  ‘She’s the girl who found me. Do I look presentable?’

  ‘Apart from a couple of black eyes and the dressings on your nose and cheek, you’re fine. I’ll tell her you’ve come round.’

  Freda walked into the ward a moment later. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not too bad, considering. Did you come in the ambulance with me? You shouldn’t have waited but thanks for everything.’