Britain, and tanks in the Western desert. And U-boats in the Atlantic, too. Don’t forget that.’
‘What do we do with these pamphlets?’ she asked.
‘Take some back with us – the others will love to see ’em. You can offer the bundle to this boy coming along on a bicycle – he can probably get a penny each for them at school.’
‘Should we, Ned? Isn’t that what the Germans want – everyone to read them?’
Yorke laughed and waved the paper. ‘I hope everyone does: it’s such blatant propaganda, so strident… It’s written in such a shrill and hectoring way that even if it was true, no one would believe it.’
Clare was far from convinced. ‘Then why do the Germans drop them?’
‘Because they don’t understand the British for a start. Tell us we’re beaten and we start waking up and trying. But if the Germans were winning the Battle of the Atlantic, why bombard us with pamphlets? Why not save paper and wait for us to starve? If all this was true,’ he tapped the bundle she was holding, ‘we’d have to surrender by Easter or starve to death.’
Finally she smiled. ‘Stop looking at me like that. I’ve been putting on a little weight, but it’s all the potatoes.’
‘So you won’t be surrendering by Easter?’
‘Not to the Germans,’ she said, and waved the boy on a bicycle to a stop. She held out the bundle. ‘German pamphlets. The man in the bomber didn’t cut the string. There are plenty more in the fields over there. Are they any good to you?’
‘Cor!’ the boy exclaimed, snatching the bundle excitedly and inspecting it with the eye of an expert. ‘I just found a dozen or so sheets over in Nicholson’s fields, but I didn’t realize others drifted this far. Must have been the wind. ’Ere, lady, can I really ’ave this lot? I get a penny each at school and Mrs Rogers – she runs the Red Cross – is on at me to give ’er some to sell to buy bandages and things. She charges tuppence. Promised she wouldn’t undercut me. These ain’t damp, neither. Them I got last week was useless – it’d rained for hours before I found ’em. In Hatch Park they were, and I reckon some poacher got a good picking first.’
By now Clare was holding Ned’s hand again and smiling. ‘Very well, you can have the bundle, and there’s a trail of them across those fields. But make sure Mrs Rogers has as many as she can sell.’
‘Oh, yus, miss. It’s the bandages, you see; they’re very expensive.’ He caught sight of Yorke’s hand in the sling. ‘I bet you know that! You must have a bob’s worth on that hand. ’Ere, mister, are you one of the chaps from the new place they’ve just started in Willesborough?’
Ned nodded and the boy grinned. ‘I ’ear they’ve got a smashing lot of nurses there. My dad works for the electricity, and he had to go there yesterday to read the meters. Made my mum jealous, he did, the way he went on about them. Anyway thanks for these!’
With that he turned his cycle round and pedalled back the way he came, riding without hands and clutching the bundle to his chest, the trail of loose pamphlets forgotten.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Clare said. ‘A few more leaflet raids and we could make enough money to build a new hospital.’
‘And I’ll be the recruiting officer who chooses the “smashing nurses”!’
Sister Scotland wore what Clare usually referred to as her ‘official face’. Standing beside Yorke’s bed, she coughed and said: ‘Mr Yorke…’
‘Yes, Sister?’
‘About that arm of yours.’ When Yorke raised his eyebrows, startled by the ominous tone in her voice, she said: ‘It’s not really responding. The physiotherapist is very worried by the limited movement in the wrist.’
‘It should move more by now?’
‘Yes, at least, we had hoped so.’
‘And the fact it doesn’t means?’
‘It means either the muscle is more damaged than we thought, or you aren’t concentrating on your remedial therapy.’
‘There’s
‘What do we do with these pamphlets?’ she asked.
‘Take some back with us – the others will love to see ’em. You can offer the bundle to this boy coming along on a bicycle – he can probably get a penny each for them at school.’
‘Should we, Ned? Isn’t that what the Germans want – everyone to read them?’
Yorke laughed and waved the paper. ‘I hope everyone does: it’s such blatant propaganda, so strident… It’s written in such a shrill and hectoring way that even if it was true, no one would believe it.’
Clare was far from convinced. ‘Then why do the Germans drop them?’
‘Because they don’t understand the British for a start. Tell us we’re beaten and we start waking up and trying. But if the Germans were winning the Battle of the Atlantic, why bombard us with pamphlets? Why not save paper and wait for us to starve? If all this was true,’ he tapped the bundle she was holding, ‘we’d have to surrender by Easter or starve to death.’
Finally she smiled. ‘Stop looking at me like that. I’ve been putting on a little weight, but it’s all the potatoes.’
‘So you won’t be surrendering by Easter?’
‘Not to the Germans,’ she said, and waved the boy on a bicycle to a stop. She held out the bundle. ‘German pamphlets. The man in the bomber didn’t cut the string. There are plenty more in the fields over there. Are they any good to you?’
‘Cor!’ the boy exclaimed, snatching the bundle excitedly and inspecting it with the eye of an expert. ‘I just found a dozen or so sheets over in Nicholson’s fields, but I didn’t realize others drifted this far. Must have been the wind. ’Ere, lady, can I really ’ave this lot? I get a penny each at school and Mrs Rogers – she runs the Red Cross – is on at me to give ’er some to sell to buy bandages and things. She charges tuppence. Promised she wouldn’t undercut me. These ain’t damp, neither. Them I got last week was useless – it’d rained for hours before I found ’em. In Hatch Park they were, and I reckon some poacher got a good picking first.’
By now Clare was holding Ned’s hand again and smiling. ‘Very well, you can have the bundle, and there’s a trail of them across those fields. But make sure Mrs Rogers has as many as she can sell.’
‘Oh, yus, miss. It’s the bandages, you see; they’re very expensive.’ He caught sight of Yorke’s hand in the sling. ‘I bet you know that! You must have a bob’s worth on that hand. ’Ere, mister, are you one of the chaps from the new place they’ve just started in Willesborough?’
Ned nodded and the boy grinned. ‘I ’ear they’ve got a smashing lot of nurses there. My dad works for the electricity, and he had to go there yesterday to read the meters. Made my mum jealous, he did, the way he went on about them. Anyway thanks for these!’
With that he turned his cycle round and pedalled back the way he came, riding without hands and clutching the bundle to his chest, the trail of loose pamphlets forgotten.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Clare said. ‘A few more leaflet raids and we could make enough money to build a new hospital.’
‘And I’ll be the recruiting officer who chooses the “smashing nurses”!’
Sister Scotland wore what Clare usually referred to as her ‘official face’. Standing beside Yorke’s bed, she coughed and said: ‘Mr Yorke…’
‘Yes, Sister?’
‘About that arm of yours.’ When Yorke raised his eyebrows, startled by the ominous tone in her voice, she said: ‘It’s not really responding. The physiotherapist is very worried by the limited movement in the wrist.’
‘It should move more by now?’
‘Yes, at least, we had hoped so.’
‘And the fact it doesn’t means?’
‘It means either the muscle is more damaged than we thought, or you aren’t concentrating on your remedial therapy.’
‘There’s
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