Wartime for the District Nurses. Annie Groves

we’ll do,’ she said with determination. ‘And we’ll start with my potato pie.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      Billy Reilly wiped his itching eyes. They were red from tiredness, not helped by his underlying anxiety that this was the calm before the storm. He gazed up at the darkening sky, searching for any enemy planes. They’d been spotted in small numbers in Kent and along the south coast, sneaking over the Channel, as was common knowledge down at the docks where he worked. You couldn’t stop sailors and dockers talking to each other. How much everyone else knew was anyone’s guess, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

      He forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand. As well as working his full shift of hard manual graft, he now had an evening of ARP duty, walking the streets of Dalston, checking that everyone had put up their blackout blinds correctly and generally helping out whenever he was called upon. He’d learnt most of what he needed to know from his colleague Stan, who everyone looked up to. Billy had known Stan since he was at school, as Stan’s sons were two of his best friends. Or, rather, they had been; now there was just Joe left.

      He was used to his duties now and found it easier to confront householders who refused to obey the regulations. In some ways it was easier in summer, as the longer hours of daylight meant nobody needed to use their gas – or, in rare cases, electric – lamps until late in the evening. During the winter months, when he’d been new to the work, there had been plenty of rows, as people pointed out that the expected air raids and gas attacks hadn’t happened and so what was the point of putting up ugly black blinds? Some wardens were lenient, insisting on the blinds only when there was a warning siren, but Billy thought that was the start of a slippery slope and aimed to be equally strict with everybody. Lives might depend on it.

      He wondered whether he could find an excuse to call in on Kathleen. He wanted to more than anything else in the world but didn’t like to push his luck. He could tell himself it was out of simple concern for her welfare, as she had nobody else to look out for her and her little son. She struggled to make ends meet and he loved helping her out in small ways. Yet, if he was honest, he knew the real reason was that he’d been in love with her for years but had missed his opportunity to tell her.

      She’d been another person Billy had known from school, and he’d always thought she was the prettiest girl there. Gradually they had drifted into the same circle of friends and they had all stayed in touch after leaving, when Billy had gone to work down at the docks. Just as he was gathering his courage to tell her how he felt, she’d met that handsome wastrel Ray Berry, and before you could say knife she’d gone and married him.

      Billy drew a sharp breath at the thought of the man who had treated Kath so badly. She’d hidden his true nature from them all for ages, but it had got to the point where anyone could see the bruising. And it wasn’t only Kath who’d suffered. Ray had resented their baby son, which was unforgivable. When the news had come that Ray had not survived Dunkirk, most people had felt relief.

      Yet Kathleen had been more distant since that day. It was as if she felt guilty at sharing the relief, the knowledge that Ray could never hurt her or little Brian ever again. So Billy was biding his time, not wanting to rush things, to ask for too much too soon. One thing was certain though; he didn’t intend to be pipped to the post again. Kathleen was the only woman for him, and if he had to wait until she realised that they were destined to be together, then so be it.

      Peggy sighed as she dutifully fastened the blackout blinds in her mother-in-law’s kitchen. This was not how she had imagined her life turning out. She had moved in after she and Pete had got married in the autumn, with the plan that they would have their own house as soon as the war was over. Pete had been happy at the thought of his wife and his mother keeping one another company while he fought for his country. He hadn’t hesitated to enlist in the army when war broke out, even though their long-awaited wedding had been only weeks away. Everything had been going so well; they still managed to marry, and he’d had a wonderful period of leave at Christmas. She’d realised she was pregnant and they’d been thrilled. But then she had miscarried, and before that really sank in, Pete had been killed at Dunkirk.

      ‘Are you finished in there, Peggy love?’

      ‘Nearly,’ Peggy called back, from between gritted teeth. She hadn’t minded Mrs Cannon at first. They’d always got along well, and the older woman had welcomed her into her home, pleased that Pete was so happy in his choice of bride. Everyone could see how well suited they were; they’d been together since meeting at school, although they’d only become serious once Peggy had started working at the gas-mask factory.

      Now, though, every tiny request or comment drove Peggy to the point of screaming. Nothing she did was ever quite right. The forks weren’t the right way round in the cutlery drawer. She hadn’t used enough Reckitt’s Blue in the washing. She didn’t know the best way to darn the frayed elbow of a jumper. None of these complaints on its own was enough to spark a row, but added together they were stifling.

      It wasn’t that Peggy had to do all the housework. She knew she was lucky; plenty of young women her age were expected to do the lion’s share of the cleaning and cooking as well as working full time. Mrs Cannon was not like that and had been heard to boast that Peggy was a good girl, putting in all those hours at the factory and then helping out around the house. Peggy groaned inwardly. It was just that when she did help, it always provoked gentle criticism.

      ‘Come and listen to the wireless,’ called Mrs Cannon from the front room. ‘That Wilfrid Hyde-White is going to be on – he’s ever so good.’

      ‘Thank you, I will,’ Peggy replied, wanting to hit her head against the wall. Another evening beckoned of sitting either side of the fireplace with the wireless in pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece, knitting or sewing on buttons while the Home Service played at full volume. Peggy preferred the music programmes, especially if Ella Fitzgerald came on, but her mother-in-law didn’t like those kinds of singers. Peggy had often wondered if she could get away with simply turning the sound down a few notches. Mrs Cannon was a little deaf but would not admit it.

      Running out of excuses to stay in the kitchen, she painted on a smile as she went through to where her mother-in-law was already sitting in her armchair, knitting at the ready.

      ‘Thank you, dear,’ said Mrs Cannon, her eyes twinkling in appreciation. ‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you around, I really don’t. I find it so hard to reach the tops of the windows now, what with my lumbago, and arthritis in my fingers. You’re so nimble, you’re lucky.’

      ‘It’s nothing,’ said Peggy, keeping the smile in place though her cheeks ached. She took the other armchair, the slightly less comfy one, and reached for her sewing bag. She brought out a skirt on which she had optimistically let out the waist when she’d been pregnant; she might as well take it in again. Her fingers trembled slightly at the memory as she threaded her needle.

      ‘Oh, what good eyesight you have,’ Mrs Cannon said warmly. ‘I remember when I used to be able to do that without my glasses. Not any more. Those days are long gone.’

      Peggy nodded. ‘What are you knitting?’ she asked, for something to say, although she already knew the answer. It was the same cardigan her mother-in-law had been working on all week.

      ‘Just a little something to keep me warm when autumn comes,’ she answered, the same as she always did. ‘I can do one for you if you like.’

      Peggy tried not to shudder. The colour, a dull brown, was not at all to her taste. ‘No, you save the wool for yourself,’ she said hastily, knowing that if she were to wear such a shade it would drain every ounce of colour from her face.

      So Mrs Cannon thought she was lucky, did she? Peggy could not imagine feeling much worse. Stuck in here, with the sound of those blasted needles clacking away, knowing that any minute now there would be a well-meant but undermining comment about her sewing technique. How was that lucky? No baby, no Pete. How she had