Some Sunny Day

Madge woke with a knot in her stomach. Today her future would be decided. She got out of bed in her tiny room at the nurses’ home at Stoke Mandeville Hospital and instantly began worrying about the questions she would be asked at the interview in London later that day. She leaned across her ageing bedside cabinet to pull the curtain back and open the window to let the fresh spring air into the little box room where she had slept since starting as a trainee in 1941, almost three years earlier.

As she made her way along the corridor for an early morning bath, Madge smiled at two fellow trainee nurses whispering anxiously together. Perhaps they’re going to London for the interviews too, she wondered. They look as worried as I feel. Back in her room, she brushed her short fair hair until it shone, opened her excuse for a wardrobe and put on her freshly laundered nursing uniform. Make-up was banned when the nurses were on duty in the wards and for that reason she decided not to wear any for her interview, not even the slightest trace of lipstick. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, she said to herself, before strolling to the spacious whitewashed dining hall and sitting down at one of two long trestles which served as tables. Senior staff like Matron and the ward sisters sat at one trestle, along with experienced nurses from the Emergency Medical Service. Madge, who was a junior, sat at the other table with the trainees.

Madge had her usual simple breakfast of tea and two slices of toast, covered with the merest scraping of butter. How she longed for the day when rationing was over and she could have a real slathering of butter. Madge tried to calculate the last time she’d had such a luxury and worked out it had to be more than four years ago. The first round of rationing had come in January 1940, and now it was April 1944.

When she was finished, she walked the short distance from the nurses’ home to the hospital reception area, where she had arranged to meet her friends Vera Clark and Phyl Irvine, who would be joining her on the early train from Aylesbury station to Marylebone. Madge smiled as her two fellow nurses, who were rarely punctual, surprisingly arrived bang on time. Vera was dark-haired, outspoken and proud to be a northerner. Phyl was fair-haired and quieter. Once the trio got to Marylebone the plan was to make their way to the India Office in Whitehall for their day-long test.

As the minutes ticked by, the three young women became increasingly worried. The green six-seater van that masqueraded as official hospital transport was notoriously unreliable. Madge was the first to hear it come coughing and wheezing round the corner.

‘What do you think our chances are?’ Madge asked the other girls as they set off for the station.

‘I heard it’s a jolly hard test,’ said Vera. She looked uncharacteristically edgy, but still kept her sense of humour and pretended to snap at the driver when he cheerfully said she sounded like a Geordie.

‘William, that is absolute heresy. I’m from Sunderland and we’re Macams, not Geordies,’ she said with a grin as she winked at the other girls.

The bit of fun encouraged a very nervous Phyl to chip in. ‘I’ve never even been to Whitehall!’

The train was a good twenty minutes late, but Madge had wisely allowed an extra hour in case of emergencies and it gave the girls time to chat about the questions they might be asked at the India Office. All three had responded to a plea from Lord Louis Mountbatten for nurses to bolster the overworked and understaffed Allied medical units in the Burma Campaign of the Second World War.

Mountbatten, since his appointment as Commander of the South East Asia Command in 1943, had made repeated requests for more nurses but was still getting nowhere until he enlisted the help of his wife, Lady Edwina Mountbatten, Superintendent-in-Chief of the St John Ambulance Brigade.

Firebrand Edwina organised a conference of the relevant authorities at the very same India Office where the nurses’ interviews were to take place and circumvented any further objections by having a quiet chat with an old friend, Winston Churchill. Sure enough, Lord Louis promptly received word that approval had been granted for the first 250 VAD nurses to travel to India.

Pamphlets were sent to hospitals nationwide and when Phyl saw one on the nurses’ noticeboard at Stoke Mandeville Hospital she had a quick conflab with Madge and Vera, then arranged for them to go to a cafe on Aylesbury High Street to talk further.

‘Things are so quiet at the hospital, it’s definitely worth considering,’ said Vera.

‘All we do is clean the wards, make beds and prepare cotton wool swabs,’ Madge chimed in.

‘Exactly!’ Vera went on. ‘So all things considered, it’s worth having a go.’

The girls laughed at the memory as they stood on the platform, but the conversation had dried up and the longer they waited, the more worried they became about the reason for the delay. Eventually the train arrived and the girls piled into their carriage, and for a while at least, their trepidation over the test that lay ahead was replaced by excitement.

‘This feels like a real adventure!’ Phyl said as they made themselves comfortable for the journey.

A number of trains and many miles of track in and out of London had been damaged in enemy air raids, but luckily the Aylesbury to Marylebone line had been spared so far. An entertaining conversation, whispered as it may have been, took place as the train approached London about the number of smartly dressed little penguins they could see from the carriage window waddling around in bowler hats. When the three young nurses spotted the India Office as they walked down the smart street of Whitehall they were almost overwhelmed by the vast three-storey building.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Vera. ‘It looks like a French chateau!’

‘It’s definitely imposing,’ Madge agreed. She stared at the building, pleased to have something to help take her mind off the barrage of questioning they were about to face.

There was little time to enjoy the equally impressive interior of the building because the girls were quickly directed by a portly steward with his jacket sleeves overhanging his knuckles to the interview rooms, where their details were taken by a sympathetic, matronly secretary, who did her best to ease their increasing nervousness.

The young nurses had just enough time to wish one another good luck before they were taken individually to different rooms on the same floor.

‘I see from the notes here that you nursed in the services section of Stoke Mandeville,’ said one of the doctors who was interviewing Madge. He walked with a pronounced limp and had a hint of grey round the temples, but was very charming and relaxed.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she answered, before they began a lengthy discussion about how to deal with bullet and shrapnel wounds.

Eventually he asked, ‘So, Nurse Graves, do you have experience of nursing abroad?’

Yet still the questions came. Would she be prepared to nurse Indian soldiers? What were the early symptoms of gangrene? What was the cause of and treatment for malaria and had she read about the sterilisation of medical equipment in field-hospital conditions? Had she any experience in the use of the new wonder drug, penicillin?

After four hours of intense questioning, another particularly stern interviewer with a big, bushy moustache nodded to Madge that she could return to the waiting room. Phyl and Vera were already there, along with three other unknown nurses, who were all sitting next to one another on the hard wooden chairs looking quite stunned. Madge gave Phyl and Vera a nod as she sat down. The whole room was silent as the interviewees reflected on the past few hours. A secretary brought in tea and biscuits as they waited to hear what their fate would be.

As Madge nibbled on a bit of shortbread, she began to wonder if she was doing the right thing after all. It dawned on her all of a sudden that if she was successful, she’d soon be leaving England for the first time, moving away from her family. She’d already let Stoke Mandeville know that she was applying, and in addition had promised her sisters Doris and Doreen her winter clothes when she left because she had the strangest of feelings that she would not be returning to England any time soon, if at all. She was too young to really believe that she might die, but still she vowed to keep a diary of her adventures abroad for her sisters so they would have something to remember her by if she didn’t make it back.

Madge thought the interview had gone well, but as the minutes turned to an hour she started to fret. At last the door swung open and every nurse in the room sat bolt upright as a woman with immaculately coiffed hair, scarlet lipstick and a sharply pressed St John Ambulance Brigade uniform walked in. Madge gave an audible gasp as she realised it was Lady Mountbatten! She had seen photographs of her in magazines but she was far more striking in person. The nurses watched, starstruck, as Lady Mountbatten took her place at the imposing desk, her pristine white gloves placed neatly alongside a leather-embossed folder. The regulation St John Ambulance black-and-white hat was worn at a jaunty angle and the white epaulettes sewn to her jacket’s shoulders stood in vivid contrast to the immaculately tailored black uniform. She smiled kindly at the young nurses in front of her.

There was a twinkle in her eyes as the society beauty hesitated for a moment, almost as if she was gently teasing them, but then announced, ‘Congratulations, ladies, you’ve all passed the selection test.’ Vera had her hand in front of her face to try and stifle the tears of joy. Phyl simply beamed from ear to ear and Madge was elated – could this be real? But her thoughts were interrupted by Lady Mountbatten, who fixed them each with a serious face and announced rather sternly, ‘Be sure to ask yourself, ladies, if you will be able to stand the heat.’ Madge was somewhat puzzled. She hadn’t been north of Watford, let alone overseas, so she couldn’t begin to imagine what the heat would be like in the Far East. On a good day in Dover, where she had lived until starting work at Stoke Mandeville, it was possible to see Calais, but a long journey was a bus ride to Folkestone and the sun was never more than warm.

Lady Mountbatten shook hands with each of the girls and they were escorted down a level and along the corridor to the Military Department of the India Office to sign a set of papers. An unsmiling official handed Vera her documents and then gave Phyl hers. Madge looked at him expectantly but he just peered over his circular, black-rimmed glasses and said without a hint of apology, ‘You are not legally eligible for service overseas because you have yet to reach the age of twenty-one. Permission is refused.’

‘I’m afraid that’s final, miss,’ the official said, before pointedly turning back to his filing.

‘Oh, that’s too bad, Madge,’ Vera said sympathetically, while Phyl gave her arm a squeeze. Madge willed herself not to cry.

As they made their way back to Stoke Mandeville she gave the matter some thought. On the one hand, when Mountbatten’s plea was issued, life at Stoke Mandeville Hospital had been very quiet and that had been a major factor in her decision to volunteer for service overseas. On the other hand, there had been huge troop movements for weeks. Nurses and doctors alike were muttering that the ‘big one’ was coming and that they needed to be ready. Perhaps, Madge thought, she’d be able to help just as much at Stoke Mandeville. And at least that way she’d be able to stay close to her family.

All the same, during dinner, Madge struggled to keep a smile on her face, and that night as she snuggled into bed she had to try her hardest to convince herself that staying in Britain was the best thing after all.

After a sleepless night, a somewhat dispirited Madge made the short walk from the nurses’ home to the hospital to begin her 8 a.m. shift. Even on that five-minute stroll numerous people asked how the interview had gone. She had a late lunch with her two friends who were understandably buzzing about the exciting, brave new world that beckoned. Phyl said she had looked at an atlas and couldn’t believe just how huge India was.

‘It’s such a shame you’re not coming with us,’ she told Madge. ‘That horrid old man in the Military Department of the India Office shouldn’t be allowed to make such ridiculous decisions.’

The kindness and support of both Vera and Phyl left Madge in somewhat of a quandary. She loved the fact that Mum and her sisters were just a short bus ride from the hospital, but she also felt that the way she had been treated was totally unfair.

That night, yet again lying awake in bed, thoughts whirling through her mind, she made a decision. I am simply not prepared to be pushed around like this, not under any circumstances. First thing tomorrow I’m going to set to work convincing them to change their minds, and I won’t stop hounding them until they let me go!

Over the next few days, Madge repeatedly tried, and failed, to navigate the maze that was the India Office telephone system until the kindly hospital telephonist, Mrs Hutchinson, stepped in to help. Day after day, Madge spoke to officials but simply could not persuade the India Office to overturn their decision.

Weeks passed into months and Madge became resigned to the fact that she would be staying at Stoke Mandeville after all. The rumours of a ‘big one’ sadly came true and Madge was kept madly busy with the volume of casualties arriving from the D-Day landings on 6 June. Many of those boys were in a terrible state and Madge found a renewed sense of purpose as she tended to their wounds and made them as comfortable as they could be.

It was a warm summer’s day and Madge had been on her feet all morning when she checked her pigeonhole for word from her sisters, Doris and Doreen, who loved receiving and sending little notes. Instead of the slim letter she was expecting, there was a thick envelope with ‘On His Majesty’s Service’ emblazoned across it and ‘India Office’ printed on the bottom left-hand side. Madge’s hands trembled, sure this would be final confirmation of the India Office rejection. She ripped open the envelope and read.

Madam,

I am directed by the Secretary of State for India to inform you that your acceptance as a member of the VAD for employment in India has been approved with effect from 16 June 1944, under the conditions set out in the enclosed memorandum.

Madge’s heart leapt. She’d done it! She was in! All her phone calls had paid off. She read on:

You will be entitled to pay at the inclusive rate of £134 per annum from the date of your acceptance until the date of your arrival in India. Issue of allotment will commence on the first day of the month following that in which you embark, and you should therefore conduct your private financial arrangements in this knowledge.

You should be prepared to embark for India at short notice. Detailed instructions will be forwarded as soon as possible and you should inform this department immediately of any change in your address.

It cannot be too strongly stressed that the utmost secrecy must be observed since disclosure by a member of her destination, location of assembly place or time of departure not only endangers the life of the member concerned, but also the lives of comrades. It is of particular importance that no baggage or personal belongings should bear inscriptions or initials of the destination other than the place of assembly.

I am, madam,

Your obedient servant,

H. G. Bull

Madge read the letter three times. Then went straight to the little room that housed the switchboard and was put through to Whitehall 8140. She waited for what seemed like an age before Mr Bull himself came to the telephone and blandly explained that whilst indeed their original decision to refuse Madge’s application was correct, on review, it was pointed out that the sea journey to India would take several weeks, during which time Miss Graves would celebrate her birthday, meaning that she would be of age by the time she reached her destination.

‘The application has been approved and, yes, you really are going,’ Mr Bull told her.

Madge was standing in somewhat of a daze with the letter in her hand as Vera walked past on her way to lunch.

‘Are you OK or have you just seen a ghost?’ she quipped, and tried to sneak a look at the document. All she could see, however, was a line that read: Miss Madge L. Graves, W5101845, VAD 125 IGH (C), SEAC. ‘What on earth is that all about?’ asked Vera. ‘It looks like a secret code.’

Madge was bubbling with excitement. ‘You’ll never believe it,’ she said, as she handed the letter over and added, ‘I’m going to be joining you!’

Vera’s whoop of joy was so loud that heads turned to see what the noise was all about, but she didn’t care.

‘I’ll get Phyl and we can all go into Aylesbury for a celebration lunch,’ she almost shouted.

Madge laughed and said she loved the idea, ‘But not today because I must tell a very important person first.’

As luck would have it, driver William was sitting outside the hospital in his battered old van and happily drove her into Aylesbury, and from there she caught the bus to High Wycombe.

By pure coincidence, as Madge got off the bus her mum Lily was waiting at the bus stop to go shopping. Madge was bursting with excitement and pride as she told her mum the news.

‘Your father didn’t like India at all when he was posted there during the Great War,’ her mother said, the shock clear on her face. ‘Do you think it’s a wise idea? Oh, but listen to me, you’ll have a wonderful time and you’ll be doing something truly amazing. I’m incredibly proud of you, love.’

Tears glistened as she wrapped her arms around Madge to give her a long and loving hug and then they walked back to the family home in Dashwood Avenue arm in arm so Lily could make her beloved eldest daughter a cup of tea.