WAR
We talk into the early hours, huddled round the fire in scratchy and no doubt flea-infested blankets, as the old man snores quietly.
Although Prissie doesn’t have the lovely singsong voice of the Welsh Valleys that Louise has, it took me a while to gather that she was from Liverpool. Having had so little to do with people from outwith the West Highlands I struggle to guess where people are from. I persuade her to tell me a bit about herself.
Louise and I lean against each other and listen as her story unfolds . . .
PRISSIE
My father was a docker at the Albert Docks in Liverpool. He was a big strong man and made a good wage loading and unloading the huge freight ships that came and went from the empire. Liverpool was a great place to work. It was said that forty per cent of the world’s trade went through the dockyards there. The pay was good, and there were always treats that came our way from loads that were spilled – the dockers would squirrel some away to take home. For instance, I’d had a pineapple years before any of my friends, and even bananas arrived on our table a couple of times a year.
Liverpool Docks had thousands of working men, and when the horn blasted for shift changes, the crowds pouring up the road and into the town were amazing to see. They were all men, all wearing hats, all smoking, and all wearing black or brown, dirty and tired from carrying big loads to and from the ships. Lugging sacks of coal for twelve hours a day was hard work.
When my sisters, Colleen and Caitlin, and I were young, there was always a gap somewhere in the fence that went around the docks that we could slip through at night. We’d wander around, and now again the Port police would give us a hell of a fright. We’d end up sprinting around the boxes and bales being chased by huge men wielding sticks. My parents were furious when Caitlin let slip one day where we had been, and we were made to promise not to go through the wire again. ‘Your dad will lose his job if they find out!’ my mother said.
The place was intoxicating. We were in awe of the Cunard and White Star liners, on which the rich would head off to New York or Argentina. Then there were the grain ships leaving and the meat loads arriving. Horses pulling carts, the steam and whistles of the trains as they pushed and pulled loads across the docks. The men were all colours – coolies from China and blacks from Africa – and it was all part of the excitement and wonder of the place.
Because Dad’s job was important for the war effort he didn’t get called up to fight, and because of the war our family prospered. There were fewer men available to work, and the supply ships that set off for Gallipoli and other places of war tended to go from Liverpool.
Dad was fanatical about football and used to go and watch Everton every Saturday afternoon, even taking the train to Manchester or Blackburn. He was a good man. He didn’t drink too much, never laid a hand on Mother, and made good money.
My parents were lucky to get good jobs. Being Catholic, Mother would avoid any conversation about religion. ‘If anyone at school calls you a Fenian teag or anything like that, ignore them, and don’t get into a fight.’
There had been a bad time last year, though. Dad was guiding a big bale of cotton that had come from America onto the dock. Three men were feeding the rope through the block-and-tackle when one of them slipped. The rope ripped through his hands and the bale landed heavily on Dad. He broke his arm, the bone sticking through the skin. He was in agony.
There were so many injuries at the docks that they had their own doctors, and within the hour they had given him some morphine, reset the bone, bandaged it up, and sent him home. There were few places in England where you would be sorted as well as that. He did have ten weeks on no pay, though, which was difficult, though luckily my parents had some savings put away in the building society.
My mother was a matron in the Liverpool Royal Infirmary, which was said to be the best in the world. She loved her job and went off to work each day in her starched and spotless uniform. We were terribly proud of her. I was always going to be a nurse, from my earliest days. Sometimes she would work nights and sometimes a day shift, so with both parents away we girls had the run of the city. By God, she was strict, though, and if we hadn’t done our school work or our daily chores, we got a thrashing from Dad when he came home.
Because Mum and Dad both had good jobs, we had a comfortable life and lived in a good house in a nice area. My sister Colleen was very clever. She read all day and loved going to school. Her teacher came to Mum one day when Colleen was thirteen and said that there was a chance she could get to university. She could apply to the Blue Coat School, which had just moved to new buildings out of town. It was set up for orphans, but they had some vacancies and she could sleep there during the week.
At first, Colleen didn’t want to go, but Mum came up with the idea that she could try and study to be a doctor – one of the first female doctors! Florence Nightingale had come from near our home, so anything to do with medicine was a big thing for all the girls in our house. Anyway, she sat the exams and got in; there was great excitement. Both Caitlin and I were quite jealous, but we were proud, too. The Blue Coat children were very obvious in the city centre as they wore such old-fashioned clothing.
Despite the prosperity of Liverpool, there had been terrible unrest in the years coming up to the war. The city was sucking in people, many from Ireland like our family who had come for work. The old people from the city resented the Catholic flood and created areas that we weren’t allowed to live in. Men would be beaten and women would fight like vixens. On Thursday nights, the men would be given their pay, and the women would be at the gates of the docks where they would meet the men, take the pay packet and give some of it back so they could go down to the pub. Late that night, the wife would go down and find her man and lead him unsteadily back to the house; some had it easier than others.
There were some ports that wouldn’t employ Catholics, and there was even the stoning of the Catholic bishop’s carriage by a handful of ruffians a few years ago. This coincided with a number of strikes that brought the ports to a halt, and the army was called in. It became known as Bloody Sunday, when strikers were killed by police. A gun-boat was even sent to the Mersey.
I wanted to get away. A Scouser I will always be, but I don’t want to live there. When recruitment for the war was in full flow, I took my chance.
Mum told me about the Queen Alexandra nurses. Quite a few were trained in Liverpool, and she knew one of their matrons a bit, so we had her round for tea. She arrived in her beautiful uniform, with a scarlet cape that only the officers wore. She spoke about the travel to distant countries, how the soldiers were so grateful for the help, and what fun all the nurses had together. Before the war, there were less than 300 of us, and we had to be over twenty-five, but she explained that there was now a huge recruitment drive – they were keen to have another 2,000 nurses as soon as possible.
Mum was so flustered before she came. Everything was scrubbed and polished, and fancy cakes were baked. ‘She’s very posh,’ she warned us, ‘but very nice, too.’
I finished school in June, and within a month I had been for my interview. A week later, I was offered a place on their training course. There were great celebrations in our house – the neighbours all came round and so did my schoolfriends. I showed them pictures in the recruitment flyers of the scarlet-and-grey uniforms and the white hats like nuns they wore. Everyone was very impressed, and my mum was especially proud of me.
So I headed off down to the outskirts of London, to a big red-brick military hospital, with a wing that was set aside for our training and accommodation, and found myself in the bed beside my now best friend – Louise.
WAR
I bombard Prissie with questions. Does she have a boyfriend? Did she do well at school? Had she had fights with Protestants herself? But it seems she has told us all she is prepared to, for the time being.
Louise piles more of the wood onto the fire and we eventually doze off. We are lying in smelly old blankets on hard ground, but it is bliss being sheltered from the rain and wind outside.
After a terrible sleep we pull on our damp clothes. Louise gets the fire going and Prissie puts water on for coffee. After a week of travelling, I badly need a wash and a shave.
I sit in my underwear with a bowl of hot water and a cloth and try to give myself a wash, but when I twist my shoulder it stings. Louise sits beside me and, without saying a word, takes the cloth. In complete silence, she moves the cloth all over my body; it feels like a declaration of devotion. Not a word is said. Her breathing and my heart pounding. I now know for certain she feels the same about me. As she wipes my face, she doesn’t catch my eye. I can see that she is blushing . . . Despite my pain and the cold, I smile like a contented cat.
We aim to reach the outskirts of Kesan – maybe ten or fifteen miles away, we guess. The little donkey is quickly becoming a good friend. I must be a heavy load, despite being so underweight, and he has eaten little since we left, although we always try to find him grazing when we stop.
Animals can sense things. Sea birds come inland before a big storm, for example. I heard of a man whose dog barked and barked and kept pulling a man away from under a big tree in a storm. He was just out of the way when there was a crack and a huge branch came down just where he had been standing. Maybe Marc is aware of my incapacity and senses I need help.
We are startled when two children come around a bend. They say something, and we smile and wave our hands in a friendly greeting. They run past us. We’re fairly sure they’ll just think of us as strangers passing through the area. They look like children in the Highlands: smiling faces, well-darned clothes, barefoot. Maybe they’re off to school. Fortunately, the weather is getting better. We decide to rest behind a wall for a while, eating the last of the bread and honey and soaking up the sun.
Louise and Prissie can see smoke from the town of Kesan a couple of miles away. There is a stretch of flat land in between, with little cover for us. The town has a mosque in the middle. There are people in the surrounding fields herding sheep and goats and heading into town with laden pack animals. We know there is a large army camp on the outskirts, but we haven’t seen any patrols. They clearly believe that the battle has been won and they are not in danger. We have no intention of getting any closer to the Turkish army than we have to, though.
As we skirt around the town we notice a signpost on the road to Ipsala, which is the main border crossing. It is about thirty miles away, so maybe four days’ travelling at our gentle pace. We decide to risk moving a bit faster by going along the road early in the morning and resting up during the day. Because the area is so flat, we have at least a mile of good visibility and warning of other people. We are feeling a bit more confident now. We no longer expect to encounter armed men behind every bush.
Louise and Prissie up the pace and take it in turns to pull the donkey, who reluctantly breaks into an ungainly trot. It is me who slows the pace, as it is a constant strain to grip with my legs. We pass some old men with mules, but no words are spoken.
Taking cover in the middle of the day, we talk about the river crossing. Everything depends on this and it has come to dominate our conversation of late.
We near a small village, and, as usual, survey it from a distance. Prissie spots a cross in the main square. Could the people there be Christian? She decides to go into the village. ‘I look the most like the locals,’ she says. ‘My dark hair will help, as long as I don’t open my mouth and reveal my Scouse accent.’
Wrapping herself up, she heads off to see if there is food for sale.
Louise and I make ourselves comfortable, and talk about what it might be like across the border and if we will be able to find help in getting us home. We touch on our wishes for later life – everything, really, apart from my love for her. It is always on my lips, but I never quite find the moment. I curse myself for not speaking to her about my feelings, but maybe it is for the best. We need to concentrate on our immediate predicament.
It is Louise who realises that our disappearance might trigger a ‘missing’ telegram to our families. Maybe it would read ‘missing – presumed dead’. How long did these things take, we wondered. Our families would be distraught.
We are getting hungry now, and we are worried about Prissie. Louise loosens my dressing and bathes my eyes. It is a month or so since they were burned. I can only just see the blurred town in the distance, but, best of all, I can see Louise’s features clearly. My shoulder has mended to a large extent, and I don’t wear the sling any more.
We doze off in companionable silence, leaning against each other for warmth. I awake with my head on her lap, my hand around her legs. We don’t say anything. I blush and move my hand away. She takes it back and rests it on her thighs.
She moves into a kneeling position and kisses me. My heart is going like a train. After a while, she leans into me and we talk for a long time.
We confess, at last, our love for each other. I tell her I’ve adored her from the first days in hospital, how when she passed my cot my hand would reach out to her. She tells me, to my astonishment, how we first met on the train in England, and that we are meant to be together.
Perhaps I’d known all along but hadn’t let myself believe it. That beautiful singsong Welsh voice, the way my skin felt so alive whenever she was near. I’d felt it before. Of course she was the girl on the train! Ever since I had arrived at the casualty station, I’d been drawn to her, knowing that we were familiar to each other, that there was a connection. But I must have blanked out all reason. I suspect that the morphine had lent a sort of oblivion to my senses.
‘I didn’t know you cared, that you felt the same way.’ Louise is sobbing gently on my shoulder. She covers my face with kisses. ‘I was never sure. DP, I’m so glad you’re here with me, despite everything.’
‘Me, too,’ I say. I feel euphoric.
*
Prissie still hasn’t returned. It’s pitch black. We are panicking a bit, but there is nothing we can do, except wait.
I pray that we all make it back to a safe country together. I wrestle briefly with my conscience, knowing that God would greatly disapprove of our intimacies, and offer up an apology, although I avoid any mention of not doing it again.
Where is Prissie? We fear she must have been captured or has been unable to find our hiding place.
‘I’m going back to the road to see if I can find her,’ Louise announces. ‘I’ll be no more than fifteen minutes, I promise.’ She squeezes my hand and stands up to go, before bending down to give me one more long kiss.
She returns alone and, despite our worry, we fall asleep, intertwined like lovers, under a single blanket.