Her room in the nurses’ home, which was a detached house in the hospital grounds, was tiny, so small that some of the nurses called it a cupboard. But she had so few belongings that it didn’t matter. And she only slept in there, as there was a communal sitting room downstairs where all the off-duty nurses gathered in the evenings.
On the evening of 6th June, everyone dropped everything to gather around the wireless and listen to the news. They heard how there had been a pre-dawn drop of paratroopers into France who had cut telephone and power lines. At 6 a.m., tens of thousands of soldiers had gone ashore in amphibious vehicles or landing craft on four different beaches in Normandy. The navy, which had been bombarding the coastal area with heavy fire, kept it up for an hour after the landings.
There was jubilation and awe in the voice of the newsreader. Jubilation, as it seemed all the many plans to deceive the enemy into thinking the invasion would be at Calais had worked, and the German troops in Normandy had been caught napping. Awe, as the huge scale of the operation was revealed, a magnificent show of brilliant organization, sheer power and guts.
But even as the nurses were cheering and hugging each other – because this invasion would surely bring the Germans to their knees and bring an end to the war – they all knew that within twenty-four hours they would be tending the first wave of hundreds, maybe thousands of casualties. It was a sobering thought too that many of the men who had jumped so bravely from their boats and other craft, and waded ashore ready to fight, would have died on those Normandy beaches.
As far as Mariette knew, her brothers were still in Italy, although there were New Zealanders, Australians and Canadians fighting alongside the American and British soldiers in France. She could imagine how fearful her parents would be when the news of the invasion reached New Zealand. They would be remembering the horrors they had both been through in France in the last war, and they couldn’t be certain that Alexis and Noel weren’t in the thick of it.
Sometimes Mariette wished she was home so much that it made her cry. She longed to feel her mother’s arms around her, to hear that trill of laughter that was so instantly recognizable as Belle’s. But more than anything she would like to sit down with her mother and really talk, not idle gossip about what the neighbours were doing, or the latest fashions, but about the experiences Mariette had lived through in England, and about her mother’s life when she was a similar age. She wanted to know the real Belle, not the mother, but the girl, and to understand all the forces that had shaped her and made her the woman she was now.
Her father too. He was a tough, strong man – sometimes a touch scary – who had taught her to sail, swim and fish, but could comfort a small child just as well as any woman. Even as a small girl she’d always sensed there was more to him than papa, fisherman and sailor. Noah had hinted at things in her father’s past, and Mariette wanted to know about them.
And then there was Mog. No one had ever really explained how Mog had come to be like a mother to Belle. Mariette knew Mog came from Wales, but she’d never said what happened to her family, or even if she had ever gone back to see them. She’d always just been a grandmother figure – loving, sweet-natured – a fantastic needlewoman, and the person Mariette had confided in.
Nearly six years was too long to be away from them. She ached for family dinners around the kitchen table, evenings spent playing board games, and sitting with them all by the fire in the winter. It was funny that she’d had to go to the other side of the world to see what treasures she had back home. She felt that when she finally got back to Russell, she would never want to leave again.
But, however much she wanted her home, she wanted Morgan too. With him being moved to Netley, she’d had no time to work on him. And even when he was here, it was almost impossible to be alone. She couldn’t walk far over fields and rough ground, and Morgan wasn’t keen on going into pubs or cafés where people were likely to stare.
Would it always be like that? And if there were always barriers, how would she ever find out for certain if Morgan was the man she really wanted to spend the rest of her life with?
On the evening of 9th June, the first casualties of D-Day, as everyone was calling the invasion of France, arrived at the Borough. They had received emergency care at dressing stations and on the ship that brought them back to Southampton, but some were very seriously injured.
Mariette happened to be going past the emergency treatment room and saw one man with half his face blown away. She was told later by Julia, a nurse she’d become very friendly with, that there were spinal wounds, eye injuries, legs and arms blown off, and that many of these soldiers would never walk again.
The following morning, Miss Wainwright told Mariette that she was to go and get the personal details of the injured. Each of them had to be listed and their families contacted, if they weren’t able to do it themselves.
Miss Wainwright was a bully, a sixty-year-old tyrant with iron-grey hair and a sour expression who had managed to keep her job as almoner because, although unsympathetic to patients, she dealt with them in an efficient manner. Mariette wanted to laugh when she realized she’d found a chink in the woman’s armour. She was squeamish! That was why she was sending Mariette to do a job she should be doing herself.
‘Don’t take all day about it,’ the almoner barked at her. ‘You’ll find the forms we use for this in the stationery cupboard. And mind you get all their details.’
‘What do I do if they are unconscious and can’t tell me?’ she asked.
‘Then get the details recorded on their dog tag,’ Miss Wainwright said irritably. ‘As long as we know their name and regiment, that will suffice for the time being.’
As Mariette walked into the first ward, with twenty-four men lying there, some with heavily bandaged heads and chests, others with cages under their blankets or arms already amputated, she thought of her mother. Belle had once described her first day at the Brook War Hospital in London, where she had been a volunteer. She said the horror of it was almost too much to take in, with the sight of blood-stained bandages, white faces etched with the pain, the smells and the low moans of pain the men couldn’t control.
Mariette saw all that now, and more, especially how young some of these soldiers were. Her heart swelled with compassion as their eyes turned to her, silently begging for her help.
She had seen so many injured civilians whilst she was in the East End, and that had been heart-rending, but these men made her think of her brothers who might, for all she knew, be lying in a hospital bed somewhere, afraid, hurting and feeling very alone.
All the men on this ward were English. Mariette supposed that the Americans had gone to Netley. She did as she’d been told and got the forms filled out, but she didn’t leave it at that. She asked each man how he was feeling. And if he wasn’t married, she asked if there was someone special, other than his parents, that he wanted to send a message to. She told them all how proud their families would be of them, and how proud England was of her brave boys.
Some cried, held her hand and sobbed out how terrifying and confusing it had been on the beach at Normandy. One told her that after he was wounded, he ran along the beach trying to find his platoon, but he was afraid he would be accused of desertion. Another told her that his best friend had his head shot off right in front of him. He needed to talk about it, and Mariette didn’t care if Miss Wainwright took her to task for taking so long, she was going to listen.
It was late in the afternoon when she returned to the almoner’s office with the completed forms. Miss Wainwright looked as if she’d spent the day sucking lemons.
‘And where have you been?’ she said.
‘Collecting all the information,’ Mariette said.
‘And why, pray, did it take so long?’
‘Because some of them wanted to talk, and I listened,’ Mariette retorted.
‘You are not here to take the place of a relative or psychiatrist. You are merely here for clerical duties. And now you’ll
have to stay late to type the letters for those unable to do it themselves,’ she said.
‘I was intending to do that anyway,’ Mariette said. ‘And, with respect, I believe that it is everyone’s duty to support and help those who have fought for our country. If listening helps, then I will do it.’
‘You insolent little baggage!’ Miss Wainwright exclaimed. ‘This is my department, and I will have it run my way.’
Mariette was tired, her leg was aching, and it had been a long and distressing day. She had done what she thought was right, and she wasn’t going to lie down and let this woman walk all over her.
‘And you, Miss Wainwright, are an apology for a human being. You are more suited to being a wardress in a prison than an almoner.’
The woman got to her feet and looked like she was going to strike Mariette. ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ she snarled. ‘I shall speak to Matron and get you dismissed.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Mariette shrugged. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’
Miss Wainwright picked up her handbag and her cardigan, and swept out of the office. Mariette sat down at her desk and began typing an address on an envelope. There was a special preprinted letter to be used to inform relatives when a member of their family had been admitted here. No details were ever given at this stage; the relatives had to telephone or visit to be told. Mariette had no intention of going against the rules, but she did have the addresses of two sweethearts that the men were afraid wouldn’t be informed.
Some of the injured men came from the north of England. As she typed the addresses, she wondered if anyone would be able to come to see them. She remembered how low she had felt while in hospital, and how much she would have liked to see someone from her family. If it hadn’t been for Morgan, she didn’t know how she would have coped.
It was after nine, and a beautiful warm evening, when she walked back to the nurses’ home. She was very hungry, but she had missed the evening meal and would have to make do with a sandwich. She wasn’t going to dwell on the unpleasantness with Miss Wainwright, or the repercussions it might have.
She would deal with that tomorrow.
But after several days with no reprimand for being rude to Miss Wainwright, Mariette assumed that the older woman had decided not to complain after all. She was just as frosty as before, but she ordered Mariette to go back on to the wards and check with each of the soldiers to see if they wanted any help or advice about anything.
‘Of course, it’s the army’s responsibility really. If they were in Netley, an officer would have already been round to see to them,’ she said airily. ‘But you can do it, until someone else comes.’
Mariette didn’t know whether Miss Wainwright was just giving her a job she didn’t want to do herself, or if one of the ward sisters had suggested Mariette. But, however it came about, she was glad. It was far more satisfying to write a letter home for a soldier who couldn’t hold a pen than to type out reports and requisition forms. Many of the men had questions about their future now they were seriously wounded, and although she didn’t know the answers to their questions, she could get the right person to come and discuss matters with them.
But the men were mostly just glad of someone to talk to. And for men who had already had a limb amputated, it helped them a little to hear from her how long it took to get used to a prosthetic limb, and what it felt like.
On 12th June, there was news of a new kind of pilotless bomb which appeared to be launched from France. People took it for a plane at first, because it had wings. But it wasn’t long before there were many more arriving, by night and day, throughout the south, and targeted on London. The bombs sounded like a motorbike, with an engine that would suddenly cut out prior to falling and exploding. They had clearly been designed to create terror, and they did.
Two old ladies who lived together were brought into the hospital after one of these bombs, which people were calling ‘doodlebugs’, fell into their garden and caused their bungalow to fall down around them. Apart from many cuts and bruises – and one lady had a broken arm – they weren’t too badly hurt, but the shock had been enough to give them a heart attack.
‘We knew what to expect in the Blitz,’ the older of the two said to Mariette, her voice quavering. ‘But you hear this, then it stops, and if you are underneath it you don’t stand a chance. What are we going to do now without anywhere to live?’
It was tough on anyone bombed out of their house, but for the elderly it was particularly cruel to lose belongings collected over a lifetime – especially if, like these two old ladies, they had no money to replace anything. Mariette said she’d contact someone to help them, but she knew priority was being given to families, so she doubted these two old dears would get anything more than one room in a shared house.
She told Morgan her concerns about housing when he came over to the Borough to see her. They sat on a bench outside the nurses’ home because it was a warm evening.
‘I despair for everyone,’ Mariette sighed. ‘They will need thousands of houses to replace all the bombed ones. And it’s going to take years to repair all those with just missing tiles and broken windows. I can’t imagine life here after the war, it certainly won’t be anything like it was before. Thank goodness I’ll be going home.’
Morgan didn’t reply.
When she turned to him, she sensed that her last remark had upset him. ‘Come with me?’ she said, taking his hand in hers. ‘I don’t want to go without you.’
‘What would I do for a living?’ he asked. ‘From what you’ve told me, Russell is too small for a hospital.’
‘There is the Bay of Islands hospital in Kawakawa, that’s not far away,’ she said. ‘Wounded servicemen went there in the last war, and it’s been pretty busy in this one too. It’s also a TB hospital.’
‘I doubt they’d want a male nurse.’
‘You, Morgan, can be very negative,’ she said lightly. ‘Do you want to stay here without me?’
He made a gesture with his hands. She knew exactly what he meant by it, that he wanted to be with her, but he wouldn’t commit himself to it, not the way he was now.
‘What would your parents say about bringing home someone like me?’ he said.
‘You spoke to them on the phone when I first lost my leg, so you know how grateful they were to you for helping me. They know you’ve been burned, that won’t make a scrap of difference to them.’
‘But I’m not what they would’ve wanted for you.’
Mariette felt herself growing angry with him. ‘I’m sick of this! They aren’t the kind of people who go by looks. I’m not going to ask you again, I’ll just go on my own.’
She got up to leave, but Morgan caught hold of her arm and pulled her back on to his knee.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said.
‘Afraid of what?’ she asked, exasperated with him.
‘We met when we were both perfect. We thought it was love, but we didn’t have long enough together to be sure of it. Then we meet up again five years later, and we’ve both got something wrong with us. How can we be sure we aren’t just making do because we know it’s unlikely anyone else will want us?’
‘Making do!’ Mariette exploded. ‘Is that what you are doing with me? Better to have an imperfect girl on your arm, than no one?’ She jumped up from his lap so fast, she forgot her leg and nearly fell flat on her face.
Morgan caught hold of her and pulled her back to him. ‘I wasn’t talking about my feelings for you, but how you might feel about me.’
Mariette looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Why do you think such things? You were the one who abandoned me. You knew I cared for you.’
Morgan dropped his eyes from hers. ‘I behaved shamefully outside the Ritz. You were everything I wanted in a girl – smart, sexy, beautiful – but at the same time I felt I was going to lose you because I’d told you I could barely read or write. So I was rough with you; that’s what I’d seen so many gypsy men do t
o women when they felt second rate. If I’d been able to write better, maybe I could’ve explained how it was. I tried to forget you; but I couldn’t. I was one mixed-up idiot, wasn’t I?’
‘If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t that sweet and kind then,’ Mariette admitted. ‘I liked the way Uncle Noah lived, I wanted that kind of life for myself. I was in two minds about meeting you that day in Trafalgar Square, because I didn’t think you’d fit into my plans, but I couldn’t quite let you go either.’
‘Did you ever think of me, after I stopped writing?’
Mariette nodded. ‘A great deal. I even thought of you while I was going out with other men. None of them ever made me feel the way you did, and I haven’t slept with any man since you.’
Mariette wasn’t sure why she admitted that.
‘And I haven’t had another girl since you either,’ he said. ‘Over in France I never got a chance. And then the fire put paid to it all.’
Mariette held his face in her two hands and kissed him lingeringly. ‘I don’t see your burn any more,’ she said as she broke away. ‘To me you are just Morgan, and I do love you.’
Suddenly they heard that dreaded motorbike sound of a doodlebug coming closer and closer to them. Morgan picked her up in his arms and ran towards the air-raid shelter with her. As he ran, nurses came charging out of the nurses’ home, some overtaking them. They had just got the door of the shelter open when they heard the doodlebug’s engine cut out.
‘In!’ Morgan yelled, pushing Mariette and the other nurses inside and quickly following them.
The crash as the doodlebug landed was so loud that the ground shook. ‘The nurses’ home!’ one of the nurses exclaimed. ‘Did everyone get out?’
Morgan struck a match and found a candle by the door to light. There were seven nurses in the shelter. When he questioned them about missing girls, it seemed they had either gone into town or were on duty.