Chapter 18
Finn had told me to find out more about the hospital during the war, and I knew exactly how to do it.
There was a book – the one Helen had snatched from under my nose from the mobile library – and I was going to find it.
I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it had been called, so simply ordering it from or finding it in the bigger library in the town centre wasn’t an option. I had to get it from Helen.
She’d been keeping herself to herself since she’d arrived at Tall Trees.
That wasn’t unusual; it often took new residents a while to settle in.
But though I’d tried to get to know her a bit better and find common ground, she wasn’t very responsive.
Maybe though, chatting about local history would give us something in common. She was clearly interested in it.
So I thought I’d go and see her in her room – she didn’t spend much time in the communal areas – and spend some time with her. It would be useful for me and my quest to find Elsie, but it would also – hopefully – make her feel more at home.
So I knocked on her door after dinner one evening.
It was one of those awful summer days where it’s muggy and unpleasant all day and then lashing down with rain all evening.
Helen’s window was open and I commented as I went in, ‘I’m glad Cyril got it open for you.
These rooms can get stuffy. You’re not getting damp, are you? ’
She was sitting in her armchair next to the window, reading a Katie Fforde novel that I’d seen on the bookshelf in the lounge only yesterday. She obviously did spend some time in the communal areas then, despite what I’d thought.
‘I like listening to the rain,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of home.’
‘Dublin?’
‘That’s right.’ Helen’s face was turned away from me, looking outside to where the heavy raindrops were bouncing off the terrace. She looked very peaceful and, I thought, content.
‘What brought you to us?’
Like a door slamming shut, her expression changed.
‘Personal reasons,’ she muttered.
There was a short, awkward silence.
‘Do you still have the books you got from the mobile library?’ I asked, looking around her room. Ah, there they were. In a pile on top of her bookshelf. ‘Is that them?’
Helen got up. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘I wondered if I could have a look at one of the books?’ I asked, feeling oddly like I was asking something outlandish. ‘The one about hospitals.’
She looked right at me. ‘There isn’t one about hospitals.’
What on earth? I knew that I should let it go, but I could see the book on top of the pile. Bombs and Bandages, it was called. I didn’t understand why this woman was being so difficult but I wasn’t going to give up.
‘Just the one on top.’ I took a step towards her and she moved so she was standing in between me and the bookshelf.
‘Would you excuse me, I ned to get ready for bed,’ she said.
‘It’s not even six o’clock.’
‘I’m tired.’ She looked at me, her eyes unblinking. ‘Goodnight.’
Totally bewildered, I admitted defeat. ‘Goodnight,’ I said.
I stood for a minute outside her closed door, wondering why she was so determined to stop me looking at the book. Maybe she was just contrary? I didn’t blame her, really. I had plans to be quite a grumpy old woman myself one day. But that didn’t help me now.
Unless … I could do contrary too. And now I’d remembered what the book was called.
I pulled my phone out of my tunic pocket, and leaning against the wall in the corridor, I looked up the local library.
Ah-ha! Success. You could search for books and reserve them online.
Quickly, I typed in Bombs and Bandages and pressed enter and there it was.
Two copies. One was on loan – of course it was, it was in Helen’s room right next to where I stood.
And the other was available. I clicked on the link to reserve it.
“Please enter your membership number,” it said.
I knew I’d been a member of the library once but I had no idea where my card was, nor what my membership number was.
Undeterred, I checked the opening hours on the website and for once, luck was on my side. Today was the day they stayed open later. I hit the phone number and waited for it to ring.
‘South London Library, Sindhu speaking.’
‘Sindhu,’ I said, starting to walk down the corridor so Helen wouldn’t hear me from her room. ‘It’s Stephanie from Tall Trees. Could you reserve a book for me?’
*
Sindhu did what she had to do – she even found my membership number for me – so the following morning, before I had to be back at the home, I went off to the library.
I’d not been there for ages, not since I’d been thinking about art therapy and looking up courses, but it hadn’t changed. Sindhu saw me arrive and took the book out from under the counter.
‘I wasn’t sure what you needed,’ she said, handing it over. ‘So I reserved you a computer too. It’s the one on the end.’
‘I’m doing a community art project,’ I told her proudly. And slightly nervously because saying the words to new people made it seem very real and very intimidating. ‘It’s based on the history of Tall Trees.’
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you were an artist.’
I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t really, like I always did now, but instead I said: ‘I am.’
‘Good for you,’ said Sindhu. ‘Give me a shout if you need anything.’
I went over to the desk she’d reserved for me and sat down.
The book had a white cover with several black-and-white pictures on the front of hospital wards and nurses with funny headdresses on.
I studied those photos for a moment then flicked through to find more inside – I was definitely more of a pictures person than a words one.
The photographs were fab. There were some amazing shots – one of a man, clearly badly injured, being cared for by a nurse, who was leaning over and lighting his cigarette.
Another showed a newborn baby being cuddled by its mother, in what seemed to be a hospital bed inside a cave.
Somewhere in the depths of my memory I remembered going on a school trip to the caves that weren’t far from here and the guide telling us that people used them as an air raid shelter.
I shivered. What a horrible thought. Although, far nicer than being bombed, I supposed.
I flicked through photos of the big hospital that was still used today, though now it was much more modern with a large extension, and the one that had been demolished to make way for luxury flats.
And then I found Tall Trees. There was a photo of the building, very similar to the one Finn had showed me, with the poplars standing straight at the side.
There was another shot of some doctors, discussing a patient while he looked at them over the top of his newspaper in a most disdainful fashion. I squinted at the window behind them, trying to work out where in Tall Trees they were, but I couldn’t get my bearings.
And then I struck gold.
There was a photograph of the outside of the building, the entrance looking very different from the modern large porch we had now, with its double-glazed windows.
Next to the doorway, stood five nurses in a row, seemingly waiting for something.
They weren’t posing for the picture – they looked like they’d been snapped in the middle of doing something.
They were wearing white dresses with crisp, clean aprons over the top and the funny caps, like in some of the other photos.
I read the caption: “Nurses at South London District Hospital await the arrival of more casualties from the East End, January 1941. From left to right, Matron Virginia Morris, with Staff Nurses Lucille Lewis, Enid Prendergast, Elsie Watson and Petra Bateman.”
‘Oh my goodness,’ I said aloud. A man sitting at the computer next to me gave me a hard stare.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, wriggling in my chair with excitement and trying to stay quiet.
I looked at the photograph, wishing I could zoom in on the page.
Elsie was looking straight at the camera, a slight frown on her face as though she was wondering why the photograph was being taken.
She was so young, I thought. Young and pretty, though her expression was serious.
I touched my finger to her likeness briefly. What happened to you? I wondered.
There was a whole chapter on nursing during the Blitz.
I read it carefully, marvelling at how stoical and brave the medical staff had been.
Towards the end of the chapter, there was a mention of Petra Bateman – one of the women in the photograph with Elsie.
She had worked at South London District Hospital until it closed in 1970, I read, and had been given a special award for service at a ceremony to mark the closure.
There was a photograph of Petra Bateman, clutching what looked to be a glass paperweight.
On a whim, I turned on the computer and typed in “South London District Hospital”, then added “closure” and “1970”.
Up came the same photograph of Petra that I’d seen in the book.
I clicked on it, and it took me to an article in a local history journal.
It was in closely typed, tiny font, which didn’t make me want to read it.
But at the bottom was another picture of Petra alongside another woman about her age, and a younger woman with the same sharp cheekbones that Petra had.
They looked extremely 1970s, with long dresses and big hair and I assumed the younger woman was Petra’s daughter.
I zoomed in and gasped. Was the other woman Elsie?
It certainly looked like her. Older, of course, but there was a definite likeness.
I studied the photograph in the Bombs and Bandages book.
Elsie was standing with one arm across her body, holding on to her opposite elbow.
And in the picture from the 1970s, she was standing in the same way.
I was pretty sure that was my Elsie. I felt a bubble of joy inside.
She didn’t die in the war, then? This was brilliant.
Feeling like I’d really achieved something, I took a photograph of the picture on screen with my phone, which was very low-tech but would have to do.
Then I thanked Sindhu for her help, and I went outside with my Bombs and Bandages book and called Finn.
As the phone rang, I felt the first stirrings of panic.
I hoped he wasn’t teaching or doing anything that meant he couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to interrupt …
‘Stevie,’ he answered, sounding friendly and welcoming and I relaxed a little bit.
‘You’re not busy, are you?’
‘No, just marking some exams and losing the will to live. So it’s nice to have a distraction. What’s up?’
‘I’m pretty sure that Elsie didn’t die,’ I blurted. ‘Not in the war, anyway.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know for sure, but I saw a photograph from a nurses’ reunion thing in 1970.’
‘Where are you?’ Finn said.
‘Just outside the library.’
‘I’m in the café on the corner near Tall Trees,’ he said. ‘The one with the green awning. Fancy a coffee? You can tell me everything.’
‘I’m on my way.’
*
I cycled so fast that I was all sweaty and out of breath when I got near the café, so I slowed right down and took it easier.
I didn’t want Finn to see me with a red face and damp armpits.
Though my hair was flat from my helmet and my nose was shiny, so I thought he really wouldn’t be seeing me at my best anyway.
Oddly, though, I found I didn’t care. I just wanted to tell him what I’d found out and see his face light up with the thrill of it all.
What was happening to me?
Finn was out in the café garden in a shady corner. He stood up when I approached and gave me a hug, which I hadn’t been expecting but I liked it even though I was a bit worried about being sweaty and gross. He looked a bit flustered when he let go and I liked that too.
I ordered a cold drink from the waitress because I was overheating after my bike ride, and grinned at Finn.
‘Tell me everything,’ he said.
‘I found a photograph of nurses from the hospital at a do in 1970, and I’m pretty sure this is Elsie.’ I showed him the picture I’d snapped on my phone. ‘See?’
‘It could be her,’ said Finn thoughtfully.
I must have looked disappointed because he added quickly: ‘It’s definitely a good start. What’s next?’
‘I thought I should go back to the book. I wondered if any of the nurses wrote messages. Maybe there’s a clue in there?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Finn. ‘You’re turning into a historian in front of my eyes.’
I snorted. ‘It’s not a real thing,’ I said, giving him a wink. ‘I keep telling you.’