Wartime for the District Nurses. Annie Groves

close to Pete, and that heady rush of first love that grew stronger by the year until they’d realised that they were meant for each other. All that had gone, vanished in the waters off Dunkirk.

      The only way in which she counted herself lucky was that she was certain how he had died. One of his comrades had seen it happen: one quick, fatal bullet. He wouldn’t have suffered. He had been serving his country, which was what he had wanted to do. He was no coward, had never flinched from physical confrontation. If there was a wrong to be righted, Pete had been the man. For a minute Peggy thought of Edith; nobody was able to reassure her of Harry’s fate. His body hadn’t been found. He had failed to return to his unit, and wasn’t on any of the wounded lists, and so they had to assume he’d drowned and not resurfaced. How unbearable for them all.

      Peggy had liked Edith on the occasions when they’d all gone out together. She always seemed keen to enjoy herself, to have a bit of fun, to let her hair down after a hard day’s work, and had fitted in easily to their group of old school friends. A thought occurred to her and she accidentally jabbed the needle into her finger.

      ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Mrs Cannon asked at once. ‘Haven’t made yourself bleed, have you?’

      ‘No, no,’ Peggy said, swiftly hiding the telltale dot of blood. She pretended to search for her scissors while the idea grew. She really could not stand the thought of every evening turning out like this, cooped up in the little front room full of trinkets, every one bearing some kind of memory of Pete, with just his old mother for company. Perhaps Edith would like an evening out. They could go to the Duke’s Arms and nobody would mind two women out on their own as they were well known there. Harry and Pete had been regulars, and were well liked. They could sit in the beer garden at the back and watch the world go by. Anything was better than this. Peggy gave a genuine smile and Mrs Cannon smiled back.

      Peggy decided she would send a message to the nurses’ home the very next morning.

       CHAPTER THREE

      Edith sped along Dalston Lane on her bike, the breeze catching at her dark hair escaping from her starched cap. She was heading for one of the smaller side streets but had been there often enough not to have to check her bearings. That was often the way with a patient who required nursing twice a day. What with Dennis and this patient, she had a busy round even without any new cases.

      She was on her way to see a three-year-old boy who not only had measles but had developed the complication of pneumonia as well. He was a very sick child, and Edith’s heart ached for him and his mother. She had not yet met the father, who was out working all hours at one of the local factories which had changed from producing pencils to munitions. He must have been earning a decent wage as the house was in a reasonable condition compared to many she visited, and yet it was barely big enough for the family, which numbered five children altogether.

      Edith knocked smartly at the door, which must have been painted fairly recently, as it was nowhere near as chipped as its neighbours. Mrs Bell opened up at once, and ushered Edith inside. ‘I’m terribly glad to see you, nurse. Vinny’s been all hot and he can’t sleep, poor little mite.’ She turned to another child right behind her. ‘Out you go, Freda, you know you’re to keep out of nurse’s way and not go near any of her things. We don’t want you down with it as well. One’s enough, one’s more than enough.’ The woman sounded at the end of her tether.

      Freda, who looked about six, regarded Edith with big, curious eyes. ‘Is me brother goin’ ter die, miss?’ she asked.

      Edith crouched down to the girl’s level and met her gaze. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’re going to look after him and see that he has the best possible chance of getting better. So you can do your bit by making sure you’re quiet when you go past his door and letting him rest.’

      ‘All right, miss.’ The little girl seemed reassured. ‘He’s got my bedroom, though. I want it back.’

      ‘Freda!’ cried the mother. ‘You know it’s because it’s the smallest room, and Vinny can’t share with the boys if he’s so sick. You’ll just have to put up with it. He needs it more than you do.’

      Edith smiled, feeling sorry for the little girl. It wasn’t her fault that she had been turfed out of her room. ‘When he’s properly better you can go back to how it was before,’ she assured her. The girl nodded solemnly and ran into the kitchen.

      ‘Nurse, I’m so sorry,’ gasped the mother, stricken. ‘You’ll think we brung them up with no manners.’

      Edith began to climb the stairs towards the back bedroom on the topmost floor. ‘Not a bit, Mrs Bell. Sometimes we forget how the other children are affected if one of the family is sick. They can be frightened and don’t know what to do to make it better. Sometimes they think it’s their fault.’ She paused. ‘All you can do is keep telling them everyone’s doing their best and they aren’t to blame one way or the other.’

      ‘You’re very kind, nurse,’ Mrs Bell replied, sounding unconvinced. She and Edith paused on the top landing outside the bedroom door. As quietly as she could, Edith took off her coat, nurse’s cap and apron and hung them over the banister. From her bag she took out an overall and handkerchief to wear over her hair, along with everything she would need to treat the little boy. They had to minimise all risk of contamination, even though it meant carrying around extra items and added to the length of the visit.

      Mrs Bell had queried why this was necessary to start with, but Edith promised her it was set down in the strict guidelines for such a case. She also required a bowl of disinfectant and a nailbrush to be left outside the bedroom door so that she, Mrs Bell or the doctor when he came could ensure their hands were clean going in and going out. Mrs Bell had protested. ‘Where can I put that without the other kids knocking it over? This ain’t a hospital where you can see what’s going on. The older boys sleep in that room opposite, and they’ll stick their noses into everything.’

      Edith had looked around and noticed a small bookshelf at her head height; she was on the short side. ‘That might do,’ she said.

      Mrs Bell had tutted. ‘We ain’t got many books and, those we have, the little darlings scribble all over, so we put our good ones up there. I’ll have to put them in me and Terry’s room, otherwise they’ll draw animals all over the pages.’ She removed the precious copies of Pears’ Cyclopaedia, the Bible and the Children’s Everything Within.

      Now Edith carefully reached for the bowl, standing on tiptoe, making sure not to dislodge the envelope she had to leave for the doctor containing the patient’s report and chart. Grimly she thought that the people who devised the guidelines might have meant well but they hadn’t reckoned on big families living in confined spaces. And this was one of the luckier households.

      Finally they were ready to go into the little bedroom. It was warm inside, but Mrs Bell had left the window open as instructed, so that what passed for fresh air around Dalston could freely circulate. On the narrow bed under a threadbare candlewick bedspread lay a little boy, propped on pillows and scarcely making a sound. Edith gently crouched beside him. ‘How are you feeling, Vinny?’ she asked.

      ‘Hot,’ he whispered.

      Edith turned to Mrs Bell, lingering in the doorway. ‘Could you fetch him a glass of cold water?’ she asked, reaching for the tray set on the battered dressing table. All the crockery and cutlery that Vinny used had to be kept separate, so as not to infect the rest of the family, although that presented another hurdle for his mother.

      Glad to be of use, Mrs Bell set off back downstairs, and Edith could properly assess her patient without causing his anxious parent even more worry. As she would with every case, she took his temperature, pulse and respiration, and noted them for comparison later. ‘Oh, you are a spotty boy,’ she said softly. ‘How am I going to recognise you when you’re better, eh? You’ll look so different.’ The little boy tried to smile but he was clearly