your body I’m trying to save!’
He continued squeezing. It seemed to take an age to reach a hundred; finally at four hundred she said: ‘That’s ten minutes.’ She took the grips and began the series of exercises for his wrist.
‘The postman’s been,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I have some letters for you. Three. You get them when you’ve finished your exercises.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t pry. There’s a long one in a manilla envelope. On His Majesty’s Service. From the Admiralty, I think. Two handwritten ones, a London postmark and a local one.’
‘Local?’
‘Willesborough. Here. The little sub-post office is only just up the road. Whoever wrote it could have saved the price of a stamp and delivered it by hand.’
For someone who didn’t ‘pry’, Yorke thought to himself, the physiotherapist was well informed about the letters. All the other patients were due to have exercises, so presumably they too would get their mail afterwards, like giving a horse a sugar lump after a difficult jump.
‘And your name’s in the newspaper,’ she said. ‘In the list of people who’ve been given medals.’
‘Oh, they’ve Gazetted it at last.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, ‘but don’t you want to see the paper and find out what you’ve got?’
‘I know already.’
She was clearly disappointed. ‘I’d have thought they’d keep it secret until they put it in the paper; a sort of surprise.’
There was no point in explaining that for security reasons the names of people getting awards were often not Gazetted until months after the awards were made: German intelligence officers could not then work out from the officers and men receiving awards the activities of individual ships. Sometimes, when it was known that a particular ship had been involved in a battle, the names were listed together; but when the Admiralty wanted to keep secret a particular loss, the names were scattered.
‘What did you get it for – the DSO?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Being a good boy. I made everyone eat up his porridge. The Admiralty are very keen on porridge. Gives your stomach a warm lining on a cold day.’
‘My boyfriend is serving in the Tropics.’
‘The porridge packet says that in the Tropics it’s for external use only.’
‘I’ll write and tell him. Might help keep his privates cool.’
Yorke laughed. ‘Yes, a sovereign remedy for avoiding hot privates.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Mr Yorke,’ she said severely. ‘My boy-friend’s a sergeant; he worries about his men. They’re privates. It’s infantry, you see.’
The exercises changed and his arm ached; the whole forearm felt as if it had been pummelled with a mallet. ‘The bandages are chafing.’
‘They’re bound to, but the skin’s too soft to exercise without them; your hand would blister.’
If only Clare was the physiotherapist. No, that was not fair on either woman: Clare would not be tough enough, and this woman certainly knew her job. More important, she knew how to make her patients do the exercises without bullying them.
‘There!’ she said, putting the various exercise devices back on the trolley, ‘That’s it for this morning. I’ll be back this afternoon. And here are your letters. And the paper with your name in it. They seem to know all about you. Quite a story, eh? Didn’t know you came from these parts.’
He knew which letter he would open last, because he wanted to savour it, but which first? He tore open the Admiralty letter. Pale blueish-grey paper; the usual formal introductory sentence. Then the orders: as soon as he was discharged from the hospital as being fit for active service he was to report to the Admiralty, and in the meantime indicate when that was likely to be. There was a room number and a four-letter initial, ASIU. What department was that? It must be new; the usual ones were familiar enough – DNI for the Director (or Department)
He continued squeezing. It seemed to take an age to reach a hundred; finally at four hundred she said: ‘That’s ten minutes.’ She took the grips and began the series of exercises for his wrist.
‘The postman’s been,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I have some letters for you. Three. You get them when you’ve finished your exercises.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t pry. There’s a long one in a manilla envelope. On His Majesty’s Service. From the Admiralty, I think. Two handwritten ones, a London postmark and a local one.’
‘Local?’
‘Willesborough. Here. The little sub-post office is only just up the road. Whoever wrote it could have saved the price of a stamp and delivered it by hand.’
For someone who didn’t ‘pry’, Yorke thought to himself, the physiotherapist was well informed about the letters. All the other patients were due to have exercises, so presumably they too would get their mail afterwards, like giving a horse a sugar lump after a difficult jump.
‘And your name’s in the newspaper,’ she said. ‘In the list of people who’ve been given medals.’
‘Oh, they’ve Gazetted it at last.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, ‘but don’t you want to see the paper and find out what you’ve got?’
‘I know already.’
She was clearly disappointed. ‘I’d have thought they’d keep it secret until they put it in the paper; a sort of surprise.’
There was no point in explaining that for security reasons the names of people getting awards were often not Gazetted until months after the awards were made: German intelligence officers could not then work out from the officers and men receiving awards the activities of individual ships. Sometimes, when it was known that a particular ship had been involved in a battle, the names were listed together; but when the Admiralty wanted to keep secret a particular loss, the names were scattered.
‘What did you get it for – the DSO?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Being a good boy. I made everyone eat up his porridge. The Admiralty are very keen on porridge. Gives your stomach a warm lining on a cold day.’
‘My boyfriend is serving in the Tropics.’
‘The porridge packet says that in the Tropics it’s for external use only.’
‘I’ll write and tell him. Might help keep his privates cool.’
Yorke laughed. ‘Yes, a sovereign remedy for avoiding hot privates.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Mr Yorke,’ she said severely. ‘My boy-friend’s a sergeant; he worries about his men. They’re privates. It’s infantry, you see.’
The exercises changed and his arm ached; the whole forearm felt as if it had been pummelled with a mallet. ‘The bandages are chafing.’
‘They’re bound to, but the skin’s too soft to exercise without them; your hand would blister.’
If only Clare was the physiotherapist. No, that was not fair on either woman: Clare would not be tough enough, and this woman certainly knew her job. More important, she knew how to make her patients do the exercises without bullying them.
‘There!’ she said, putting the various exercise devices back on the trolley, ‘That’s it for this morning. I’ll be back this afternoon. And here are your letters. And the paper with your name in it. They seem to know all about you. Quite a story, eh? Didn’t know you came from these parts.’
He knew which letter he would open last, because he wanted to savour it, but which first? He tore open the Admiralty letter. Pale blueish-grey paper; the usual formal introductory sentence. Then the orders: as soon as he was discharged from the hospital as being fit for active service he was to report to the Admiralty, and in the meantime indicate when that was likely to be. There was a room number and a four-letter initial, ASIU. What department was that? It must be new; the usual ones were familiar enough – DNI for the Director (or Department)
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