The Nurse's War. Merryn Allingham

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      Miss Strachan had not been slow in making her own impression, Daisy thought, but perhaps now wasn’t the time to mention it.

      ‘She said you appeared agitated and hadn’t wanted to wait. It takes some time to come from the fifth floor, you know. I was on my way.’ His tone was only slightly reproving.

      ‘It wasn’t that. I would have waited, but … I couldn’t go through with it.’ The words came out in a rush, ill suited and too dramatic.

      ‘Is calling on an old friend such an ordeal?’

      He made it sound so easy and she wished it were. She reached up to push the damp curls from her face and her hand pulled at first one strand of hair and then another. ‘It didn’t feel right, that’s all. I was there under false pretences.’

      He didn’t respond to this confession and his gaze remained steady. Then he took hold of her hand and, before she could protest, led her through the maze of family groups, towards the empty space she had spied earlier. ‘This is where you were making for, I think. We can talk here.’

      Other people had been quick to spot the same refuge and it had now shrunk to even smaller proportions. They settled themselves as best they could, squashed against the furthermost corner of the tiling before it lost itself along the tunnel. She was uncomfortable, hemmed in on all sides, and swamped by his physical presence. She’d forgotten how cool and fresh his skin smelt. It was distracting at a time when she needed her wits about her.

      ‘So why the pretence?’

      ‘I had to see you and she—Miss Strachan—was insistent that I must have an appointment. But today is my only free day. I’m on duty for the rest of the week.’

      ‘It sounds as though it might be something of national importance after all.’

      ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she murmured. So personal that now she’d arrived at the moment the impossibility of conveying Gerald’s demand hit her with an unforeseen force. She felt her breath stutter and words go missing.

      ‘Tell me,’ he urged. His hand rested lightly on her forearm, a gesture of friendship, of solidarity. ‘You’ve braved meeting me again, so it must be serious.’

      Daisy looked down at her hands and noticed they were clenching and unclenching. He must have noticed, too, and realised how hard this was for her.

      ‘It was about your work,’ she managed to say at last. At least that was true, but far too vague. It was the best she could do though.

      ‘My work?’

      ‘How is it going?’ She’d ducked the question she should be asking.

      ‘Fine.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s going fine.’ An uneasy silence opened between them and in her mind it filled the entire station, blotting out the chatter, the laughter, the raised voices.

      ‘Did I tell you I’d jumped horses?’ He was trying to fill the yawning gap and she was grateful. ‘Not exactly jumped,’ he continued, ‘more of a sideways manoeuvre.’

      ‘You said something about new colleagues, I think. I don’t remember the details.’

      ‘That’s hardly surprising. Anyway, I’m working for Special Operations now. What’s left of the SIS after last year’s split is still with the Foreign Office, but I got lucky.’

      ‘Why lucky?’

      ‘The SOE is far less demure—it can even be a tad exciting. The Foreign Office seems positively staid by comparison.’

      She’d always felt that Grayson was cut out for adventure, and it looked as though he’d finally found it. His masquerade as a district officer in Jasirapur had never quite rung true.

      ‘What do you do there?’

      ‘Guerilla stuff—getting operations going in occupied countries. Or at least, we try to.’

      She forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying but her mind refused to obey. Somehow she was having to hold one kind of conversation, while at the same time working to escape the one that really mattered. And, all the time, she was conscious of his warmth infiltrating the length of her body.

      In a daze she heard herself say, ‘But I thought your work was with India.’

      ‘It is. SOE is divided up, each section assigned to a single country and naturally I got to join the Indian sector. We set up the India Mission late last year. It’s too distant for London to control directly but I’m the liaison officer.’

      ‘And that’s exciting?’

      ‘By proxy. We’re building local resistance, helping groups in Japanese occupied territory. The station’s due to move to Ceylon, to be closer to South-east Asia Command, but I’ll still be the liaison.’ He paused for a moment and then with a slight awkwardness, ‘Here, I’m rambling on far too long. You can’t possibly be interested in all of this. Tell me, how’s the training going?’

      Her ploy appeared to have worked. In his enthusiasm, he’d forgotten the urgent matter she wanted to discuss. She was being a coward, she knew, but with luck, the all-clear would sound before he remembered it. And if she could talk about her own work as engagingly, it might distract him a while longer.

      ‘The training’s going well. Studying isn’t always easy, especially after a long day or night on the wards. But since I passed the Preliminary Exam, it’s been better. I’m trusted now with quite difficult procedures, though I don’t escape the drudgery—and bedpans are beginning to lose their allure.’

      She gave a rare smile and he smiled back. ‘Only beginning! But you must be gaining an immense amount of experience. And once the war is over, you’ll find that invaluable. I can see you making matron in no time.’

      She didn’t reply, but felt his eyes resting on her, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. ‘Sorry, that sounded callous. I can imagine the experience has come at a price. Some of your days must be very distressing.’

      She felt herself being tugged towards his sympathy. Don’t look at him, she told herself, don’t look into his face, into his eyes. She must not allow old feelings to surface. Not when they could be dashed at any moment, severed absolutely, if she was forced to admit the outrageous request she had come with.

      ‘Some of the work is painful,’ she agreed. ‘Barts still operates as a casualty clearing station and the stream of bomb victims is pretty constant. But you’re right. With local emergencies as well, the nursing is intensive, particularly as we’ve only a skeleton staff. Most of the nurses have been sent to Hill End but I’ve been lucky. I was one of the few asked to stay in London.’

      ‘And when the war ends, where to?’

      He seemed as eager as she to keep the conversation going, so she obliged. ‘I should be an SRN by then. I think I’d like to specialise in surgical nursing. I actually made it into the theatre the other day. One of the third year nurses had to go home—her mother is extremely ill—and I took her place. Operations are done in the basement now. They’ve moved all the linen, but it’s still quite cramped. I found it so interesting, though, that I forgot how hot and crowded it was.’

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