swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump. She was right. He had been sent to Dunkirk. Dear Johnny. Whatever must he have felt, seeing the ships rescuing thousands of soldiers and he wasn’t one of them. But it seemed he’d made the decision, just as she expected he would. Maxine felt a sting behind her eyes. Yes, he was brave, and she could well imagine him doing just that.
Another agonising fortnight passed with no more news. Maxine was in the ward helping a patient to walk to the toilet, grateful that she was a slight woman, though she still weighed heavily on her arm, when Sister Marshall came up to her, a look of concern in her eyes.
‘I’ll take Mrs Harvey, Nurse. There’s a telegram for you in Matron’s office.’
She knew. Cold sweat beaded her forehead. She didn’t even have to open the telegram. She reprimanded herself. Until she heard otherwise she mustn’t crumple. Mustn’t think the worst. It might be him and he was writing to say he was safe. But she knew any form of contact from him would not be in the form of a telegram.
With hammering heart she half ran down the corridor.
‘Nurse!’ A Sister she didn’t know held her hand in the air. ‘I must remind you – you may only run for fire or haemorrhage.’
‘I’m sorry, Sister.’
Her feet now feeling like lead, she knocked on Matron’s door.
‘Come in.’ Matron looked up. ‘Oh, yes, Nurse Taylor. Do sit down.’
Maxine’s knees felt they would give way at any moment. Defeated, she sat and caught her breath.
‘A telegram has arrived for you.’ Matron handed her a blue envelope.
With trembling hands Maxine took the telegram. Even before she saw the word ‘priority’ written on the envelope, she knew …
‘If you’d like to take a moment and read it quietly, I’ll leave you to it.’ Matron disappeared out of the door. ‘Call me if you need me. I won’t be far away.’
Her fingers could barely work under the seal to open it. Heart pounding in her throat, she pulled out the sheet of paper with the printed message.
From Lieutenant-Colonel J. A. Donaldson
6th July 1940
Dear Mrs Taylor,
May I be permitted to express my sincere sympathy with the sad news concerning your husband Cpl. John L Taylor. I regret to say that we have been notified today via the Swiss Red Cross of his death from pneumonia.
Your husband was an exemplary soldier and his loss is deeply regretted by us all.
When we receive any of his effects they will be forwarded on to you.
Once again please accept the deep sympathy of us all.
Yours very sincerely,
J. Anthony Donaldson
The paper fluttered to the floor. Maxine couldn’t summon the energy to bend down and pick it up. A terrible shaking took hold of her body. She dropped her head in her hands, gasping to hold back the sobs. She mustn’t break down. She needed to look after her patients. They relied on her.
She heard the door open and the solid figure of Matron step in.
‘Oh, my dear … it’s bad news, isn’t it?’
Maxine nodded, speechless.
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes.’ It was a whisper.
‘I’m sending you home right away. Take two days off.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t …’
‘We’ll manage, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Matron put a hand on her shoulder.
She looked up. Matron’s face was creased in sympathy.
‘Please let me go back to the ward, Matron.’ Maxine forced herself to speak calmly. ‘I’ll be better if I can work. I’ll have plenty of time to think about it when I’m off-duty.’
‘Very well.’ Matron became brisk. ‘But I insist you go to the canteen and have a strong cup of tea with sugar. You’re in shock, my dear, though you may not realise it. And if you are not feeling better tomorrow, please stay at home.’
Somehow she got through the day, even forgetting for a few minutes at a time about the telegram and the terrible news. And then it would sweep over her in a sickening cloud. Johnny – her dearest friend since childhood. She would never see him again. Never look into his twinkling brown eyes. Never laugh at his feeble jokes.
She delivered the last bedpan to an elderly lady who reminded her of her headmistress. A hard-faced woman with frizzy grey curls and bitter lines around her mouth, who was furious to be forced to use such an item for her private ablutions.
Maxine pulled the curtains around the patient and tucked the bedpan under the cover. ‘There you are, Mrs Shepherd. I’ll be back shortly.’
‘See that you do, Nurse.’ Mrs Shepherd looked at Maxine with reproachful eyes, as though it were her fault. ‘I waited a full quarter of an hour this morning before someone came to take it away.’
That evening, Maxine stepped into the hall and her mother came out immediately, her face red, all of a fluster.
‘My dear, was it bad news?’
Maxine felt caught off guard. How did her mother know something had happened before she did?
‘The telegram boy brought it here and I told him you were at the Infirmary.’ She took her daughter’s coat and hung it on the rack. ‘It’s Johnny, isn’t it?’
‘Let me tell you and Dad together, Mum.’
‘I’d better make us all a cup of tea.’
A brandy would be more like it, Maxine thought, but she simply nodded and her mother disappeared into the kitchen.
She found her father in his chair in the sitting room reading his newspaper, glasses slipping down his nose, his favourite slippers with a hole in each toe encasing socks which she’d had to snip the tops off to make room for his poor swollen ankles. He rose up with difficulty and gave her a hug.
‘Your mother says a telegram came here for you, but she sent the boy to the hospital.’
‘It’s very bad news,’ Maxine began as her mother appeared with the tea tray. She felt the tears prick at the back of her eyes. She must keep calm. Must let them know she was being sensible and not acting impulsively. ‘Johnny’s dead.’ There was no other way to say it.
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I knew it … I just knew it. As soon as he’d been taken by those dreadful Germans. Didn’t I tell you, Stan?’
Her father gave a long sigh. ‘Yes, you did, dear.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘And I’m very sorry to hear it, Maxine. He was a good lad and thought the world of you. Did they give you any details?’
‘Yes.’ Maxine’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Pneumonia.’
‘Oh, the poor boy.’ A tear spilled down her mother’s cheek. ‘Well, at least you’ve got us. We’ll look after you at home and help you through.’
‘Thanks, Mum, and I really mean it, but I’ve decided to apply to St Thomas’.’
‘You’re not going on about moving to London again?’ Her mother’s eyes were wide. ‘You don’t want to make a decision as important as this without more time. You’ve had a terrible shock, dear, and you’re not thinking straight.’
‘I am, Mum. Everywhere I look around here reminds me