serenity ended, and the Battle of Britain began. The soldiers and Nursing Sisters of Hospital Number 15 sat alongside the people of Southeast England in grandstand seats to the spectacle, cheering on R.A.F. Spitfires in their aerial dogfights against Luftwaffe fighters escorting the waves of bombers to their targets and standing with hearts in their mouths as a tiny aircraft would plunge downward, spiraling back to the arms of mother earth, trailing long plumes of fire and smoke.
At night the eastern sky glowed red, telling the tale of another heavy raid on the city. The nurses lay awake in their hard, narrow cots, listening to the sound of planes overhead. German bombers flying to or from their targets, English fighters in urgent pursuit.
One perfect, crisp day in early autumn Moira took her bicycle out to get some exercise. It had been a hard duty shift. A young soldier, famous around the camp for his easy laugh and sense of fun, fell off the roof of the barracks during a childish prank and rather than foolishly breaking a leg or two, had fallen onto an iron spike lying abandoned in the long grass. The spike pierced his chest and he died on the operating table. It was a horrible, foolish, tragic waste, and Moira had been brought to tears.
She cycled through a small path cut around the farmers’ fields. The sun shone bright overhead; the crops were lush and full. She stopped pedaling to wave enthusiastically to the Land Girls bringing in the harvest. She was still waving when the whine of an airplane engine in distress sounded directly overhead. It was a German bomber, no doubt about it; they had all been trained to recognize the distinctive appearance of enemy aircraft. Smoke billowed from under the wings and, as she watched, minuscule figures leapt from the undercarriage and drifted on billowing clouds to the outstretched arms of a welcoming green earth. There was nothing for her to do: excited Land Girls and angry farmers armed with pitchforks descended on the fluffy parachutes. Moira watched as the aircraft spun out of control and crashed into a far distant field, exploding in a ball of flame. It was too far for her to reach, across the farmers’ ploughed fields, on her ancient bicycle, in time to offer aid. If indeed aid should be required. Heavy of heart, she turned and headed back to the barracks. There was nothing she could do, she was too far away, and help (if needed) was on its way, but for many years after, she berated herself for her selfishness, because she did not want to see the face of the enemy.
Chapter Seven
At eight o’clock sharp, Elaine tapped on the study door and edged it open. Moira’s chair was pulled up to the ornate antique desk, and Ruth, dressed in a different dress than yesterday but still proper servant’s black, stood stiffly beside her.
“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” Moira asked. Today’s T-shirt proclaimed support for kidney research. Ruth nodded once in greeting.
“Very well, thank you,” Elaine lied. “And I’ve already been out jogging and had a lovely breakfast. So I’m more than ready to get to work.”
“Sit down then and let’s do just that.”
Elaine sat in the straight-backed chair pulled up beside the desk. Nothing in the room would put one in mind of the early 1900s except for Moira’s desk. Carved out of solid oak, it was coated with a patina of decades of love and care and attention. The rest of the furnishings and the room itself could have substituted for a spread in this month’s issue of Modern Home . Sofa and chairs, piled high with white cushions, were upholstered in a fresh shade of blue. The walls were painted white, decorated with large, colorful pieces of modern art, and one heartbreakingly beautiful painting of the lake outside the study window, but as it must appear in deep winter—a lone moose crossing the endless white expanse of ice and snow in search of enough food to see his massive body through to the plentiful days of
At night the eastern sky glowed red, telling the tale of another heavy raid on the city. The nurses lay awake in their hard, narrow cots, listening to the sound of planes overhead. German bombers flying to or from their targets, English fighters in urgent pursuit.
One perfect, crisp day in early autumn Moira took her bicycle out to get some exercise. It had been a hard duty shift. A young soldier, famous around the camp for his easy laugh and sense of fun, fell off the roof of the barracks during a childish prank and rather than foolishly breaking a leg or two, had fallen onto an iron spike lying abandoned in the long grass. The spike pierced his chest and he died on the operating table. It was a horrible, foolish, tragic waste, and Moira had been brought to tears.
She cycled through a small path cut around the farmers’ fields. The sun shone bright overhead; the crops were lush and full. She stopped pedaling to wave enthusiastically to the Land Girls bringing in the harvest. She was still waving when the whine of an airplane engine in distress sounded directly overhead. It was a German bomber, no doubt about it; they had all been trained to recognize the distinctive appearance of enemy aircraft. Smoke billowed from under the wings and, as she watched, minuscule figures leapt from the undercarriage and drifted on billowing clouds to the outstretched arms of a welcoming green earth. There was nothing for her to do: excited Land Girls and angry farmers armed with pitchforks descended on the fluffy parachutes. Moira watched as the aircraft spun out of control and crashed into a far distant field, exploding in a ball of flame. It was too far for her to reach, across the farmers’ ploughed fields, on her ancient bicycle, in time to offer aid. If indeed aid should be required. Heavy of heart, she turned and headed back to the barracks. There was nothing she could do, she was too far away, and help (if needed) was on its way, but for many years after, she berated herself for her selfishness, because she did not want to see the face of the enemy.
Chapter Seven
At eight o’clock sharp, Elaine tapped on the study door and edged it open. Moira’s chair was pulled up to the ornate antique desk, and Ruth, dressed in a different dress than yesterday but still proper servant’s black, stood stiffly beside her.
“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” Moira asked. Today’s T-shirt proclaimed support for kidney research. Ruth nodded once in greeting.
“Very well, thank you,” Elaine lied. “And I’ve already been out jogging and had a lovely breakfast. So I’m more than ready to get to work.”
“Sit down then and let’s do just that.”
Elaine sat in the straight-backed chair pulled up beside the desk. Nothing in the room would put one in mind of the early 1900s except for Moira’s desk. Carved out of solid oak, it was coated with a patina of decades of love and care and attention. The rest of the furnishings and the room itself could have substituted for a spread in this month’s issue of Modern Home . Sofa and chairs, piled high with white cushions, were upholstered in a fresh shade of blue. The walls were painted white, decorated with large, colorful pieces of modern art, and one heartbreakingly beautiful painting of the lake outside the study window, but as it must appear in deep winter—a lone moose crossing the endless white expanse of ice and snow in search of enough food to see his massive body through to the plentiful days of
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