‘I’LL TELL YOU ONE GOOD THING ABOUT THIS WAR,’ Mary quipped to another first-aider at the baths. ‘I’ve lost almost a stone on rations. I call it the Hitler Diet.’
‘I’ve lost a bit too,’ her friend replied, pulling at her loose waistband. ‘My weakness used to be toast and jam, but I can’t stand these National Loaves, and there’s no sugar to waste on jam.’
‘You look peaky, Mary,’ someone chipped in. ‘Have you been burning the candle?’
‘We have a bit,’ Mary said. ‘I must try to get more sleep. Are you listening, Luftwaffe?’ She tilted her head and called up to the sky.
Being in close contact with so many different people, she picked up lots of colds, sore throats and ticklish coughs, but fortunately Ernest appeared to have a strong constitution because he never caught them from her. She sniffled and hacked her way through the winter on her own.
Grey, overcast weather turned almost overnight to spring. Mary walked out one sunny morning and smelled greenness in the air, felt warmth on her face. Two pigeons made her laugh by copulating on the pavement right in front of her: the female spread her tail feathers and the male jumped on top for all of five seconds before flying off. ‘Poor thing,’ Mary soothed. ‘He was a cad.’
She was on her way to an appointment with Sir Launcelot Barrington-Ward for her six-monthly check-up. She was not remotely concerned as she had passed the last one with flying colours, so had told Ernest he need not take time off work.
‘How long have you had that cough?’ Sir Launcelot asked, moving his stethoscope around her chest.
‘On and off all winter,’ Mary said, and explained about her first-aid work.
‘You’ve lost a lot of weight,’ he commented. ‘Have you been having night sweats?’
‘Only if the Jerries drop a bomb too close,’ she answered. ‘Why?’
‘I’d like to run a few tests,’ he said, then, seeing the alarm on her face, added, ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
That afternoon she had all manner of tests and X-rays, and when another doctor was brought in to examine her as well, she began to get anxious.
‘Can you at least tell me what you’re looking for?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps we should get Ernest to come,’ Sir Launcelot replied. ‘Do you want to telephone him?’
‘No, I want you to tell me what you suspect. I can take it.’
And that was when Sir Launcelot told her they thought the cancer had spread to her lungs, and they wanted to operate urgently.
Ernest was by Mary’s side, holding her hand, when she came round from the lung operation, and she knew from his face that the news was not good. He had never been good at dissembling. One moment she had been a wife and mother with two or three decades in front of her; the next, the rug was pulled from under her feet. She made a decision then and there not to weep and wail, but to make the best of it. It was wartime; everyone was suffering.
‘How long have I got?’ she asked when Sir Launcelot came to check on her.
‘Goodness, it’s not a case of that,’ he assured her. ‘We’ve taken out all we can, and once you’ve recovered from the operation, we’re going to start you on a course of radiotherapy. It can be very successful at clearing up any remaining cancer cells. You’ll come to the hospital every day for three weeks and the procedure will only take an hour. Be positive, Mrs Simpson. Look to the future.’
The radiotherapy was horrid, like fire on raw skin, and left her chest with thickened red burns that kept her from sleeping at night. Mary had fresh sympathy for all the burns victims she had treated at the first-aid station, with their weeping, oozing wounds. How had they been so uncomplaining?
‘As soon as I finish radiotherapy, I want to go and see Whistlebinkie,’ she begged Ernest. ‘Can you get me to America?’
He hesitated. ‘It will be tricky. There are German U-boats patrolling the Atlantic, so passenger shipping has come to a halt.’
‘I need to see my boy,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ll find a way; I know you’ll find a way.’
Ernest asked at the Admiralty without success, while with every day that passed, Mary felt herself get weaker. By June it was hard to walk any distance because of her shortness of breath. She spent most of her time on the daybed in the drawing room writing letters to her sisters and composing her will. She didn’t tell many friends of her illness because she didn’t want them to feel awkward and struggle to find platitudes. She and Ernest seldom discussed it either; they talked about practicalities, such as hiring a live-in nurse. Mary tried to stay positive, but with every day her yearning to see Whistlebinkie grew more intense, till she could think of nothing else.
It was the end of June, just after Hitler’s troops had invaded Russia, when Ernest came home with news.
‘How do you feel about flying?’ he asked. ‘Winston Churchill heard of our plight and has offered you a place on a clipper flying to New York, and a return flight four weeks later.’
Mary’s stomach lurched. She had been up in a plane with Jacques once and it had made her very sick, but she would grab any chance to see her boy.
‘It’s very kind of him, but why should Winston Churchill concern himself with me?’ she asked. ‘I imagine he’s terribly busy right now.’
Ernest cleared his throat. ‘I think it’s felt that I behaved honourably over the divorce from Wallis, and that they owe me a favour. I wish I could accompany you, but it’s impossible.’ He looked stricken. ‘You will come back, won’t you?’
‘Oh Ernest. Of course I will. How could you ever doubt it?’ She caught his hand, pulled him down to her level and kissed him tenderly.