The Nurse's War. Merryn Allingham

boat in his arms and bouncing excitedly up and down beside his mother. He was about to sail a new toy, she thought, and that was a big event in this time of austerity.

      ‘I’ve already told you all you need to know,’ Gerald said at last, his tone grudging. ‘I was saved from drowning, broke an arm and a few ribs, was patched up by a local wise woman and sent on my way.’

      ‘And the villagers never asked where you’d come from?’

      ‘I made up a story.’ Of course, he would have. ‘I said I was a businessman—said my name was Jack Minns and I was trading in rapeseed. There’s plenty of that around Jasirapur and they didn’t question my account.’

      She considered how credible that might sound. Gerald had not been in uniform, she remembered. He would not have had any form of identity on him. His story would be the only one in town.

      ‘But how did they think you’d ended up in the river?’

      ‘That was easy to explain. The celebrations got a bit boisterous. They always do, don’t they? And somehow I tripped and fell, and my friends weren’t able to reach me because the river was flowing too fiercely.’

      ‘Then surely they would have sent to Jasirapur for someone to come and collect you.’

      He shook his head. She noticed a crafty smile playing around his lips. ‘I told them the friends I’d been with were also traders and by now they would have moved on, travelling north-westwards. That was the direction I intended going, towards the Persian border. I told them that once I was on my feet again, I’d start out and join them. And I did. Not join them, of course, because they didn’t exist, but I travelled north-west to the border.’

      ‘Without money?’

      ‘There are ways. The villagers sent me off with a few rupees and India is full of temples.’

      ‘You begged your way to the border!’

      ‘More or less.’

      ‘And after that, when you got to Persia?’

      ‘I scrounged whatever I could, then when I reached Turkey, took whatever job I could get. Anything that would feed me. Once I had sufficient money, I travelled on to the next place. It was bloody awful, I can tell you. The things I had to do … but once I reached France, life improved. I travelled up the country as far as Rouen and got taken on as a waiter in a local bistro. The tips were good and I actually enjoyed the life—not waiting, of course. Being at everyone’s beck and call didn’t suit me at all. But the idea of running a restaurant, that really appealed and still does. When I get to the States, that’s what I’ll do. It’s America I want to go to.’

      She had been listening to him in disbelief. How much credence should she give to this account of his travels? Could she really imagine the arrogant young cavalry officer she’d known begging at temples, or scavenging food bins or waiting on tables? Or was that as much a fantasy as his plan to open a restaurant in America without money and without papers?

      She said none of this. Instead, she asked, ‘If you liked the life in France so much, why didn’t you stay?’

      ‘Ever heard of Hitler? That’s why, Daisy. The Jerries were about to invade and it wasn’t safe. I’d picked up a bit of French here and there, but any German soldier with the slightest ear would know I was English. If they found me, I’d have been interned immediately. I reckoned I might as well languish in prison here as there.’

      He saw her surprised expression. ‘Not that I’ve any intention of languishing anywhere, but I did need to get to England pretty damn quick.’

      ‘And you did.’

      ‘I met a chap at the restaurant. He used to eat there pretty regularly. He was English but had been living in Rouen for years. For a while he’d been holding his breath over the political situation, but once the Germans invaded Poland, we both knew the game was up. France as well as Britain declared war two days later and it was only a matter of time before the Germans arrived. The bloke decided to make a bolt for it back to England. Fortunately, he owned a car and I travelled back with him.’

      ‘I see.’

      She didn’t really. She couldn’t understand how Gerald had managed to get past border controls without a passport or any form of identification. But in wartime everything was in flux and he must have looked and sounded the English gentleman. She imagined he’d told them some sad story and got them to believe it.

      ‘So where are you living?’

      Her question was deliberately bland. When he’d appeared on her doorstep the night before last, he had let slip that he’d looked for his parents in the East End, but he was not about to confess the layers of mistruth he’d been spinning ever since she’d known him. And now his mother and father were gone, wiped out by a German bomb, there seemed little point in raking up old lies.

      ‘The East End,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Whitechapel.’

      She remembered the address he’d given her, a shop in Gower’s Lane. She knew the road and it struck her that it was only a stone’s throw from Spitalfields, where they’d both been born. He misinterpreted her silence and said defensively, ‘I’ve hardly any money and it was the cheapest lodging I could find.’

      She was still thinking. She had a very small sum saved. Should she offer it to him, or was that ridiculous? It was nowhere near enough to purchase a berth on a ship to New York. And that was without reckoning on those all-important papers. Even more important in America, she imagined, since the country was not at war and would police its borders rigorously.

      ‘Is the interrogation officially over?’

      He smiled across at her and for an instant she glimpsed the old Gerald, the man with whom she had fallen so deeply in love. Or thought she had. His fair hair gleamed bright in the spring sunshine and though his cheeks were emaciated and his frame thin, he could almost be the same handsome man.

      ‘I’m sorry if it sounded like an interrogation. I didn’t mean it to be. But so much has happened to both of us since …’

      She saw a quick flush mount to his face. ‘I gather Grayson Harte rode to your rescue.’ So far he’d said nothing about that terrible night, but that was not surprising.

      ‘So you know what happened?’

      ‘The tale spread like wildfire. Tales always do in India. The village was naturally desperate to hear the gossip from up river and siezed on anyone who’d been in Jasirapur. But the story they got was only half a one. I gathered from their talk that the gang had been apprehended and put in jail awaiting trial, but I heard nothing about you. I had no idea if Harte and his minions turned up in time.’

      ‘As you see, they did.’

      There was a cold silence as they sat staring across the lake, small ripples now disturbing its surface. A stiff breeze had begun to blow and the little red painted boat was bobbing precariously away on the waves. The small boy started to cry.

      Gerald shifted irritably in his seat. ‘So—what’s your plan?’ he repeated.

       CHAPTER 3

      ‘I don’t have one.’

      Apparently they’d said all they were going to say about the terrifying event they had shared. India was to be a closed subject between them.

      ‘What do you mean, you don’t have one?’

      ‘I told you, Gerald, I have no idea how I can help you.’

      ‘Jack,’ he interrupted her.

      ‘Jack,’ she repeated, though the sound of the name stuck on her tongue. ‘I’ve very little money but you’re welcome to what I have. I doubt, though, it will get you much further than Southampton. And as for the papers, how