Princess Anne to Balmoral
Crowds gathered outside Clarence House as the young Princess Anne travelled with her mother and brother from their home to make their way north to Balmoral. Only the second outing since she was born.
Mary read the article with little interest and flicked through the pages. The resident columnist’s by-line on page five jumped out at her.
Matron of the Pont y Haven hospital to marry German ex-POW Peter Schormann…
‘Oh no!’ Mary skimmed through the item:
… love thine (one-time) enemy … my source at the hospital … Mary Howarth, Matron at Pont y Haven will be one of the first in Wales to marry a German ex POW … Peter Schormann, a former doctor and POW at a camp in the north of England … now an odd job man in the village of Llamroth where they live … fell in love at a time when it was totally forbidden … ‘We are very happy,’ says Miss Howarth, ‘and don’t see why others shouldn’t be happy for us as well.’ …will marry at Llamroth Church on Saturday 23rd December at 2 o’clock …
‘Damn and blast.’ Mary crumpled up the paper and threw it in the waste paper basket under her desk. Who would have talked to the Clarion? The answer was staring her in the face. She looked beyond the open door of her office and along the corridor filled with staff going about their business. Or my business, she thought, bitterly. ‘Damn and blast “my source at the hospital”,’ she said, crossing the room and slamming the door.
Too angry to stay still she paced her office. She had a good mind to telephone the bloody newspaper, demand to know who they’d talked to, insist on speaking to whoever wrote the article. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so furious.
An ambulance darkened the window as it passed, its bell shrill, insistent. At the same time the telephone rang. ‘The Chairman would like to see you in the Conference Room, Matron.’ The cool voice of his secretary held no hint of friendship.
Mary stood motionless, her hand still on the receiver, steadying her breathing. Pulling her shoulders back, she smoothed her hair away from her forehead, adjusted her cap and scrutinised herself in the mirror. Her blue eyes were resolute. ‘All right,’ she muttered, ‘here we go.’
The corridor to the Conference Room had never seemed so long. Or so quiet. Mary was aware of the soft squeak of her heels on the tiles, the muffled sounds behind the closed doors of the wards, even the kitchens were quiet at this time, between breakfast and lunchtime. She had time to think as she strode, eyes fixed to the front. She needed to be ready to answer any questions if the hospital board members had seen the Clarion. She slowed to a halt. Or did she? Did she really have to defend herself? Was it any of their business? She kept this in mind as she settled in the chair opposite the six men and four women of the Board.
‘We were aware of the rumours around the hospital about your – your domestic arrangements. And then, this morning, the Clarion…’ Ivor Thomas almost spat out the words as though the name had left a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Now I realise it is neither the business of the Board or of me as Chairman to make summary judgement without hearing your side of the situation—’
‘No, it’s not, Mr Thomas. And if you don’t mind I will not be discussing my, as you call it, domestic situation,’ Mary interrupted.
‘Miss Howarth!’ The remonstration came from Mrs Warburton-Thorpe, a tall, gaunt, very upright woman of about sixty with grey hair tightly scraped back from her face. She peered over her spectacles at Mary, clearly astounded. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so rude.’
‘Probably not, Mrs Warburton-Thorpe, but there again I have never been treated in such a fashion as I have lately. I realise you may have some concerns—’
‘Indeed.’ Mrs Warburton-Thorpe nodded. No one else said a word. Two of the men shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs.
‘But I assume you concede that the hospital is functioning in an excellent manner, as it has over the last four years under my care.’ Mary could hear the quiver in her voice and hoped they couldn’t.
‘Still, it’s most unfortunate this has happened,’ Ivor Thomas said. ‘Dare I say even thoughtless and…’
‘And?’
‘Unprofessional.’
‘In what way, Mr Thomas? Pont Y Haven has come on in leaps and bounds since I became Matron here and I pride myself that a great deal of the improvements were down to me.’
‘Quite so.’ This from a small woman at the other end of the table, new to the Board, who Mary only knew by sight. ‘And I think we would be the first to acknowledge that.’ Her large teeth gave her a lisp and when she smiled at Mary her lips didn’t quite stretch over them.
Mary smiled in return before turning back to the Chairman who cleared his throat.
‘We have convened the Board to discuss how this publicity affects the hospital.’ With a flourish he produced a large blue handkerchief, took off his pince-nez and began to polish it vigorously. ‘You are single but living with a man, consorting with…’
‘Consorting!’
‘With, I have to say, a person, er, a person, who could bring the hospital into disrepute.’ He was sweating; the beads of perspiration bridged his nose.
‘How?’
‘I have no wish to discuss this further.’
‘So you wish me to leave?’ Mary kept her voice courteous but questioning. If they were going to sack her, he would have to say it. Through sheer stubbornness she would make him say it.
‘You must appreciate our position, Miss Howarth, our reputation and that of the hospital.’
‘And I have brought it into disrepute how exactly?’
‘Well, I should think you would know how.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, this is getting us nowhere.’ The interruption came from Mrs Warburton-Thorpe. ‘Mr Chairman, we agreed with your proposal, it was seconded and passed by the Board even before Miss Howarth entered the room. We must ask Matron for her resignation.’
As though I have much choice, Mary thought.
‘And wish her all success for the future.’
‘Will you wish me to stay until you find a replacement?’
‘That won’t be necessary in the … er … in the circumstances.’ The man folded his arms.
‘Really, Mr Chairman, I must insist my objections are minuted. As I said before, this is a drastic action for the Board to take.’ The small woman half rose in her seat.
‘Thank you Miss Lewis, your, ah, your opinion has indeed been minuted.’ He looked at Mrs Warburton-Thorpe who inclined her head. ‘Now, please leave this to me.’
Miss Lewis subsided into her seat with a small murmur of protest.
Mary placed her hands on the arms of the leather chair and half stood. ‘Will that be all, Mr Chairman?’
Flushed with annoyance, he was trying to keep his pince-nez on his nose. He gave up and pushed it into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘It seems so, Miss Howarth, um, it seems so.’ He almost appeared at a loss then said, ‘I believe you have leave owing? Please feel free to take it as from today.’
‘Thank you.’
As she closed the door she heard him say, ‘Such a disappointment – quite the best Matron we ever had.’
‘And such a shame you didn’t feel able to tell her, Mr Chairman. Whatever I feel about her circumstances, that’s the least we could do … thank her.’ Mary recognised the clipped tones of Mrs Warburton-Thorpe and smiled; well, well, what a surprise. She lifted her chin and walked away.
‘Miss Howarth?’
Mary turned. ‘Miss Lewis?’
The small woman hurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’d like to say good luck, my dear.’ She blushed and said in hushed tones, ‘My fiancé, he was Jewish and we were disowned by our families. I was only seventeen but I knew he was the only one for me. He died during the ’flu epidemic after the First War.’ She spoke louder as two young nurses walked past with the heads down. ‘I wish you and your fiancé all the luck in the world.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary had an almost overwhelming urge to cry. She turned on her heel.
Sitting at her desk, Mary laced her fingers together on the maroon leather pad set into the desktop and looked around her office. She felt strange, as though the last two hours were unreal and now she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d emptied the drawer of all her personal things: her old copy of Bailliere’s Nurses’ Complete Medical Dictionary, a notepad and envelopes, gloves, a scarf, hairpins, pens; packed the blue vase from on top of the filing cabinet, her photographs of Tom and her mother, and the few books she liked to read whenever she had a quiet lunchtime, from the shelf under the window; straightened her blotter parallel to the edge of the writing pad, putting her pen and pencil pot neatly next to it.
She was afraid to stand, uncertain that her legs would take her weight.
This had been her place in the hospital for the last four years. She knew every inch of the room: the spidery cracks in the wall above the door, just visible under the cream paint; the stain on the carpet by the old green leather armchair where Bob had spilt his tea during a meeting, the subject of which she couldn’t now recall; the green velvet curtains, worn along the hem. As her gaze moved slowly around the room it was as though she was distanced, watching herself taking it all in.
Through the panelled oak door of her office she could hear the muted sound of trolley wheels and, further away, the faint clatter of metal trays. A smell of cabbage and custard drifted in the air through the open window. It was odd to think that the everyday activities – the hustle and bustle of the wards, the coming and going of ambulances, the laughter and chatter in the staff canteen – were going on. Would carry on when she left.
The copper fingers on the wall clock juddered with a loud clunk to half past eleven and startled her into action. Removing her lacy cap and the white plastic cuffs that covered her sleeves, she looked at her face in the mirror above the small sink as she washed her hands. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and she was very pale. Carefully applying powder and lipstick, unusual for her at work, she combed and pinned her hair back under the cap.
The sky was densely blue, so clear for September. A skewed spark of sunlight flashed across the glass, dazzling her. She was consumed with an overwhelming urge to go home, to find Peter, to hold him.
She stood, looped her handbag over her arm and picked up the cardboard box, balancing it against her chest. There was nothing else for her to do. Since the meeting, no one had been near her office. It was as though the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for her to leave.
The door clicked firmly behind her. She slid the sign to ‘Out of Office’, touched the shining brass plate with her name engraved on it and wondered how soon the caretaker would be told to take it down.
When she turned around Vivienne Allott was standing halfway along the corridor watching her.
Mary strode towards her, following her until Vivienne was backed against the wall. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You went to the Clarion with your spiteful tales?’
Vivienne lifted her shoulders. ‘If it wasn’t me it would have been someone else. You’re not as popular as you like to think.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Matron.’
Mary narrowed her eyes, meeting the girl’s stare. She saw the glint of triumph. Don’t, she told herself, don’t rise to the bait. Without speaking she spun on her heels. She didn’t look at Vivienne Allott but as she passed Mary heard the soft snigger. For a moment her step faltered, the urge to scream abuse at the girl almost irresistible.
Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she quickened her pace and walked out of the hospital.
By the time Mary got off the bus it was mid afternoon. She sat on the wall, her back to the sea. The village, perched on the rising hill a few hundred yards away, surrounded the church where they would be married. The windows in the rows of cottages caught the low sun, the lustrous reflection thrown back towards the sea. From her vantage point Mary could see people going in and out of the post office and shop. She glanced to her left where the lane curved; to where Tom was killed.
She had the sudden urge to be home.
Peter wasn’t there. She sat on the front steps. The wind carried with it the smell of the sea, a fishy, pungent seaweed smell that stung her nose. A group of squabbling seagulls, losing their battle against the wind, skidded along the water nearby. She watched them riding the scummed waves, dipping and shaking their heads.
Mary wondered if Vivienne Allott would ever realise or regret how much damage she’d caused by her vicious tongue. She doubted it. People like that never did; they just spread their poison and moved on, leaving people’s lives destroyed. Well, she wouldn’t let that happen. One way or another she and Peter had a good life in front of them. They had one another and that was how it would always be.
She began to cry.
However unfair it was, and however justified her anger, the shame and humiliation of being dismissed from her post and the fear of what the future held without her wages filled Mary with dread.