Chapter 2 #2
Ivy approached the counter. “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Picot.”
“I’ll bring your iodine as soon as I finish compounding this ointment.
” On a marble slab, Miss de Ferrers wielded a skinny spatula in a figure-eight motion through the clump of ointment.
She wore her curly auburn hair tucked up in rolls, and lines of concentration radiated around her mouth.
Not a pretty face, but intriguing with deep-set eyes and a pointed chin.
Ivy resisted the urge to fetch her sketch pad. “I’m glad I could finally meet you.”
Miss de Ferrers cut her a quick glance, revealing hazel in her eyes. “Why? Because I’m the only lady chemist in Jersey and you’re the only lady doctor?”
“Well . . . yes.” Why did Ivy feel that was the incorrect answer?
A huff of a chuckle. Miss de Ferrers scooped the ointment into a squat glass jar and swirled the tip of her spatula inside, creating a tiny peak. “I apologize, but I have no taste for feminine friendships.”
Ivy’s jaw froze open, and she guided it closed. Pain pinged in her chest for the woman who must have seen only the ugly side of feminine friendship—and for herself, because she missed the beautiful side.
At Oxford, there were only twelve women in Ivy’s year of medical school. They’d banded together to support and help each other. They’d become lifelong friends.
The chemist set down the ointment jar, picked up a bottle of brown-black iodine solution, and handed it to Ivy. “That will be two shillings, please.”
Concealing her sigh, Ivy paid Miss de Ferrers with the new two-shilling banknote printed in Jersey due to a shortage of coins.
After saying goodbye, she cycled along Queen Street.
Yes, she had lifelong friends, but they were in England.
She couldn’t see them, couldn’t talk to them, couldn’t even write them.
And her childhood friends in Jersey? Whilst Ivy had been away at university, they’d married and had children and formed new circles with no room for her.
How she missed Dad and Mum. Messages passed between them through the Red Cross, but only about twice a year, with a limit of twenty-five words, and delayed by several months.
At least Ivy had her aunts, uncles, sister, and brother.
Ivy pedaled up Bath Street to La Bliue Brise, painted white with peacock-blue shutters and door.
Fern had saved the home—and the medical practice.
The Germans had requisitioned La Bliue Brise, as they had many other homes in Jersey.
But Fern had marched up to the German Feldkommandantur’s office at Victoria College House and offered her home instead.
Not as large, but with a lovely view of the ocean from the top floor.
She’d also made the case that preserving the medical practice would keep the islanders healthy, which would keep the occupiers healthy too.
The field commander had accepted Fern’s offer, and Fern had moved back into her childhood room. Ivy enjoyed both her sister’s company and her help with the housekeeping.
Ivy pushed her bicycle through the back door and locked it in the supply room. Sounds emanated from the kitchen. “Fern? I’m sorry I’m late. I—”
“Charlie told me about the foreign workers blocking the road,” Fern called. “He’s washing up. I sent your patients home. I only hope they’ll understand.”
“I hope so too.” Ivy entered the kitchen.
Over two years had passed since Mum had last fried Jersey Wonders in this kitchen. Now with butter and cream and flour rationed, Wonders were only a memory. Yet Ivy could almost smell the twisted loops of sweet dough, could almost hear her mother humming.
At the table, Fern chopped vegetables. “The Jersey grapevine says over one thousand workers arrived today. They’re from Ukraine. Some were captured fighting with the Red Army, some are partisan fighters, and some are conscripts.”
Ivy picked up a knife and peeled a pretty little Jersey Royal potato. “Many are no older than Charlie, and all are in the most pitiable state.”
“I doubt that.” Fern smiled at her and dropped the vegetables into the pot on the stove. “That soft heart of yours.”
“Ivy’s right.” Charlie leaned against the doorjamb. “I saw them too.”
“Make yourself useful, young man.” Fern tossed him a potato.
Instead of peeling it, he studied it with a pensive look. “I enjoyed being useful this summer, making wages and helping the family.”
Fern smoothed a sable curl back from her cheek. “Much appreciated with the practice doing so poorly.”
Ivy’s shoulders stiffened as she diced the potato. What more could she do? She couldn’t force patients to trust a young lady doctor. At least the flood of patients leaving the practice in the first weeks after Dad left had stopped.
“It made me determined to do my bit.” Charlie puffed out his thin chest. “When I’m in school, not only do I not earn money, but my school fees add another burden.”
Ivy’s cheeks tingled as the blood drained from her face. “It’s never a burden.”
Charlie’s lower jaw jutted out. “As the man of the house, I need to contribute, not take. Yesterday I was hired as a deckhand on the SS Ormer.”
Ivy’s knife clattered to the table. “A deckhand!”
“The Ormer?” Fern stared at Charlie with her lovely mouth hanging open.
Charlie strode to the table and peeled his potato, but his dark lashes fluttered. “It’s a cargo boat. It carries Jersey potatoes to Saint-Malo and returns with food and supplies from France. Not only will I earn money, but I’ll help the people of the Channel Islands.”
“Oh, Charlie.” Ivy waved her hand toward Victoria College, the finest boys’ school in Jersey, where Charlie was a top pupil. “You can’t leave school. You have three more years.”
“In a fortnight I turn fifteen, the school-leaving age.”
“That’s for other boys,” Fern said. “Not boys like you.”
Charlie’s knuckles protruded as his grip on the knife intensified. “Why should boys like me lounge around learning Latin when other boys my age are helping their families? It isn’t right that Ivy’s supporting the three of us.”
Fern gasped. “I work too.”
“You work for Ivy. She’s the only one bringing in money.”
“We don’t mind. We get by.” A horrible spinning sensation, and Ivy pressed her hand to her stomach. “Charlie, please don’t give up your dream. You want to be a doctor. You’ve always wanted—”
“How can I?” He thumped the potato on the table. “Most of the boys and masters from the college evacuated. We have a shell of a school. And where can I study medicine? There are no universities in the Channel Islands. This war—it’s never going to end. I might as well work.”
“Please don’t.” Ivy’s vision blurred. “We’ve always dreamed . . . Dad and you and I—”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Charlie’s gaze softened. “We’d always planned that I’d join the practice, and when you had children, you could practice part-time.”
Fern turned back to her stew and clucked her tongue. “You needn’t worry about that. Ivy isn’t having children.”
Ivy gaped at her older sister. “I’m only twenty-five. I’m hardly a spinster.”
“All the eligible men abandoned the island.” Fern lifted one dainty shoulder. “Unless you want to marry a Ger—”
“Never!” Women who dated enemy soldiers might have new clothes and extra food, but they were shunned and despised for good reason.
One corner of Fern’s mouth buckled. “You had your chance at Oxford. Such a shame.”
Warmth rose up Ivy’s neck, and she averted her gaze.
“The more I think about it . . .” Fern stirred the stew. “Charlie is right.”
“Fern!” Ivy said.
A triumphant smile rose on Charlie’s face. “Of course, I’m right.”
“Yes.” Fern gave a sharp nod. “I’ve been concerned about Victoria College all summer, ever since the Germans took five of the masters as hostages. They wouldn’t have done so unless the men were subversive.”
“Subversive?” The Germans had arrested prominent citizens to force the surrender of two brothers who criticized the German seizure of wireless sets.
“They’re not subversive,” Charlie said with a sigh. “That’s not why I’m leaving school.”
“For the money.” Fern’s spoon banged around in the pot. “Not only will we save his school fees and add his wages, but he’ll travel to France. He can buy goods we can’t buy here, like medical supplies. You always complain about shortages, Ivy.”
Ivy didn’t care about that. She cared about Charlie. “What would Dad and Mum say? They’d be heartbroken. What would you do if one of your boys left school?”
“My boys aren’t here.” Each word a pointed barb. “Neither are Dad and Mum. I’m the eldest, and I say Charlie takes the job.”
Charlie’s expression—instead of brightening at Fern’s support—darkened. “It isn’t your decision. Either of you. It’s mine. I’m old enough to leave school. I’m old enough to take a job. And I’ve done so.”
With Dad gone, Ivy was the caretaker of the family dream. And it was slipping through her fingers.