house. Peggy groaned inwardly. It was just that when she did help, it always provoked gentle criticism.
‘Come and listen to the wireless,’ called Mrs Cannon from the front room. ‘That Wilfrid Hyde-White is going to be on – he’s ever so good.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ Peggy replied, wanting to hit her head against the wall. Another evening beckoned of sitting either side of the fireplace with the wireless in pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece, knitting or sewing on buttons while the Home Service played at full volume. Peggy preferred the music programmes, especially if Ella Fitzgerald came on, but her mother-in-law didn’t like those kinds of singers. Peggy had often wondered if she could get away with simply turning the sound down a few notches. Mrs Cannon was a little deaf but would not admit it.
Running out of excuses to stay in the kitchen, she painted on a smile as she went through to where her mother-in-law was already sitting in her armchair, knitting at the ready.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Mrs Cannon, her eyes twinkling in appreciation. ‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you around, I really don’t. I find it so hard to reach the tops of the windows now, what with my lumbago, and arthritis in my fingers. You’re so nimble, you’re lucky.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Peggy, keeping the smile in place though her cheeks ached. She took the other armchair, the slightly less comfy one, and reached for her sewing bag. She brought out a skirt on which she had optimistically let out the waist when she’d been pregnant; she might as well take it in again. Her fingers trembled slightly at the memory as she threaded her needle.
‘Oh, what good eyesight you have,’ Mrs Cannon said warmly. ‘I remember when I used to be able to do that without my glasses. Not any more. Those days are long gone.’
Peggy nodded. ‘What are you knitting?’ she asked, for something to say, although she already knew the answer. It was the same cardigan her mother-in-law had been working on all week.
‘Just a little something to keep me warm when autumn comes,’ she answered, the same as she always did. ‘I can do one for you if you like.’
Peggy tried not to shudder. The colour, a dull brown, was not at all to her taste. ‘No, you save the wool for yourself,’ she said hastily, knowing that if she were to wear such a shade it would drain every ounce of colour from her face.
So Mrs Cannon thought she was lucky, did she? Peggy could not imagine feeling much worse. Stuck in here, with the sound of those blasted needles clacking away, knowing that any minute now there would be a well-meant but undermining comment about her sewing technique. How was that lucky? No baby, no Pete. How she had loved him, with his athletic frame and dark eyes that sent her weak at the knees every time he looked at her. How she missed holding him, being held by him. She’d never feel like that again. No man could ever come close to Pete, and that heady rush of first love that grew stronger by the year until they’d realised that they were meant for each other. All that had gone, vanished in the waters off Dunkirk.
The only way in which she counted herself lucky was that she was certain how he had died. One of his comrades had seen it happen: one quick, fatal bullet. He wouldn’t have suffered. He had been serving his country, which was what he had wanted to do. He was no coward, had never flinched from physical confrontation. If there was a wrong to be righted, Pete had been the man. For a minute Peggy thought of Edith; nobody was able to reassure her of Harry’s fate. His body hadn’t been found. He had failed to return to his unit, and wasn’t on any of the wounded lists, and so they had to assume he’d drowned and not resurfaced. How unbearable for them all.
Peggy had liked Edith on the occasions when they’d all gone out together. She always seemed keen to enjoy herself, to have a bit of fun, to let her hair down after a hard day’s work, and had fitted in easily to their group of old school friends. A thought occurred to her and she accidentally jabbed the needle into her finger.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ Mrs Cannon asked at once. ‘Haven’t made yourself bleed, have you?’
‘No, no,’ Peggy said, swiftly hiding the telltale dot of blood. She pretended to search for her scissors while the idea grew. She really could not stand the thought of every evening turning out like this, cooped up in the little front room full of trinkets, every one bearing some kind of memory of Pete, with just his old mother for company. Perhaps Edith would like an evening out. They could go to the Duke’s Arms and nobody would mind two women out on their own as they were well known there. Harry and Pete had been regulars, and were well liked. They could sit in the beer garden at the back and watch the world go by. Anything was better than this. Peggy gave a genuine smile and Mrs Cannon smiled back.
Peggy decided she would send a message to the nurses’ home the very next morning.
Edith sped along Dalston Lane on her bike, the breeze catching at her dark hair escaping from her starched cap. She was heading for one of the smaller side streets but had been there often enough not to have to check her bearings. That was often the way with a patient who required nursing twice a day. What with Dennis and this patient, she had a busy round even without any new cases.
She was on her way to see a three-year-old boy who not only had measles but had developed the complication of pneumonia as well. He was a very sick child, and Edith’s heart ached for him and his mother. She had not yet met the father, who was out working all hours at one of the local factories which had changed from producing pencils to munitions. He must have been earning a decent wage as the house was in a reasonable condition compared to many she visited, and yet it was barely big enough for the family, which numbered five children altogether.
Edith knocked smartly at the door, which must have been painted fairly recently, as it was nowhere near as chipped as its neighbours. Mrs Bell opened up at once, and ushered Edith inside. ‘I’m terribly glad to see you, nurse. Vinny’s been all hot and he can’t sleep, poor little mite.’ She turned to another child right behind her. ‘Out you go, Freda, you know you’re to keep out of nurse’s way and not go near any of her things. We don’t want you down with it as well. One’s enough, one’s more than enough.’ The woman sounded at the end of her tether.
Freda, who looked about six, regarded Edith with big, curious eyes. ‘Is me brother goin’ ter die, miss?’ she asked.
Edith crouched down to the girl’s level and met her gaze. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’re going to look after him and see that he has the best possible chance of getting better. So you can do your bit by making sure you’re quiet when you go past his door and letting him rest.’
‘All right, miss.’ The little girl seemed reassured. ‘He’s got my bedroom, though. I want it back.’
‘Freda!’ cried the mother. ‘You know it’s because it’s the smallest room, and Vinny can’t share with the boys if he’s so sick. You’ll just have to put up with it. He needs it more than you do.’
Edith smiled, feeling sorry for the little girl. It wasn’t her fault that she had been turfed out of her room. ‘When he’s properly better you can go back to how it was before,’ she assured her. The girl nodded solemnly and ran into the kitchen.
‘Nurse, I’m so sorry,’ gasped the mother, stricken. ‘You’ll think we brung them up with no manners.’
Edith began to
