women in nurse’s uniform making gestures towards the curtaining which enclosed her and Jameson.
‘Unless someone new has arrived . . .’ the other one said.
Poppy leaned forward to tug at her curtain, reveal herself and say hello.
The two girls looked at her severely. ‘Is it you who’s used all the bath water?’ said the first of the girls, who was a few years older than Poppy, had short dark hair and hazel eyes.
Poppy shook her head. ‘I haven’t actually seen a bathroom yet.’
‘Well, someone has,’ the girl said, ‘and the whole hostel knows that it’s my turn to have the first bath this week. I’ve been working for twelve hours without a break!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Poppy.
‘The selfish beast must have had it absolutely brimming with water,’ said the same girl. ‘The orderly says there’s not a drop left in the hot tank.’
‘It smells like a tart’s boudoir in there, too!’ said the other girl.
There was a creak from the bed in Jameson’s cubicle and the cross girl wheeled round. ‘Are there two of you?’ she asked Poppy. ‘Two new girls?’
On Poppy nodding, the other girl tugged at the curtain and Jameson was revealed, stretched out on her bed and looking guilty.
‘Did you take all the bath water?’ the girl demanded.
Jameson, in pristine white ruffles, looked alarmed. ‘I didn’t realise. I’m most awfully sorry!’ she said. ‘Someone always draws me a bath before supper and –’
‘Not here they don’t,’ came the retort. ‘Here you take your turn and once a month, if you’re lucky, you’ll be in the first five to have a bath and get two inches of hot water. The rest of the time you have to line up and get one inch of lukewarm water, and if some selfish beast has got there before you and taken it all, you get nothing.’
Jameson said over and over how dreadfully, terribly sorry she was, but it took a considerable amount of grovelling on her part (and she was probably not much used to that, Poppy thought) before the other girl was placated. She and Jameson then had to sit through a short lecture about how many hours the VAD, whose name was Moffat, had been on her feet, how she hadn’t stopped for as much as a sandwich, and how Jameson should have asked the orderly if it was all right for her to bathe when she wasn’t even on the rota and therefore had no rights whatsoever.
Poppy, thanking the Lord that she hadn’t felt the need for a bath, listened to this in silence. Jameson did, too, for this was a real-life VAD they were being lectured by, in a crumpled grubby apron which looked as if it had seen nursing action and with a red cross on her bib which meant, as far as most of the world was concerned, that she was a heroine. Poppy gazed at her admiringly, knowing that the next morning, she’d be taking the first steps towards joining those hallowed ranks.
Supper, a bowl of soup in the canteen, came next. Poppy was pleased when Moffat joined them, for she’d feared she might have been lumped in with Jameson as another selfish beast. Moffat, however, did not seem to hold grudges and began telling stories about life as a VAD – she’d joined up right at the start of the war – before, yawning profusely, she excused herself to go to bed.
Poppy was tired, but when she went upstairs she found it difficult to sleep, and worries about new responsibilities competed with thoughts of Freddie de Vere. Did he ever think of her? Would he write to her as he’d promised? Was the lady of the lake a very lovely thing?
With a sigh she realised that if Freddie were awake, his thoughts were probably all of the war and fighting and death, for she didn’t think it very likely that soldiers had much time or energy to think about love. Nevertheless, she could not shake off the attractive notion that she and Freddie were meant to be together . . .
The following morning at seven thirty, Poppy, plus Jameson and ten other new VADs, were met in the dusty lounge of the
‘Unless someone new has arrived . . .’ the other one said.
Poppy leaned forward to tug at her curtain, reveal herself and say hello.
The two girls looked at her severely. ‘Is it you who’s used all the bath water?’ said the first of the girls, who was a few years older than Poppy, had short dark hair and hazel eyes.
Poppy shook her head. ‘I haven’t actually seen a bathroom yet.’
‘Well, someone has,’ the girl said, ‘and the whole hostel knows that it’s my turn to have the first bath this week. I’ve been working for twelve hours without a break!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Poppy.
‘The selfish beast must have had it absolutely brimming with water,’ said the same girl. ‘The orderly says there’s not a drop left in the hot tank.’
‘It smells like a tart’s boudoir in there, too!’ said the other girl.
There was a creak from the bed in Jameson’s cubicle and the cross girl wheeled round. ‘Are there two of you?’ she asked Poppy. ‘Two new girls?’
On Poppy nodding, the other girl tugged at the curtain and Jameson was revealed, stretched out on her bed and looking guilty.
‘Did you take all the bath water?’ the girl demanded.
Jameson, in pristine white ruffles, looked alarmed. ‘I didn’t realise. I’m most awfully sorry!’ she said. ‘Someone always draws me a bath before supper and –’
‘Not here they don’t,’ came the retort. ‘Here you take your turn and once a month, if you’re lucky, you’ll be in the first five to have a bath and get two inches of hot water. The rest of the time you have to line up and get one inch of lukewarm water, and if some selfish beast has got there before you and taken it all, you get nothing.’
Jameson said over and over how dreadfully, terribly sorry she was, but it took a considerable amount of grovelling on her part (and she was probably not much used to that, Poppy thought) before the other girl was placated. She and Jameson then had to sit through a short lecture about how many hours the VAD, whose name was Moffat, had been on her feet, how she hadn’t stopped for as much as a sandwich, and how Jameson should have asked the orderly if it was all right for her to bathe when she wasn’t even on the rota and therefore had no rights whatsoever.
Poppy, thanking the Lord that she hadn’t felt the need for a bath, listened to this in silence. Jameson did, too, for this was a real-life VAD they were being lectured by, in a crumpled grubby apron which looked as if it had seen nursing action and with a red cross on her bib which meant, as far as most of the world was concerned, that she was a heroine. Poppy gazed at her admiringly, knowing that the next morning, she’d be taking the first steps towards joining those hallowed ranks.
Supper, a bowl of soup in the canteen, came next. Poppy was pleased when Moffat joined them, for she’d feared she might have been lumped in with Jameson as another selfish beast. Moffat, however, did not seem to hold grudges and began telling stories about life as a VAD – she’d joined up right at the start of the war – before, yawning profusely, she excused herself to go to bed.
Poppy was tired, but when she went upstairs she found it difficult to sleep, and worries about new responsibilities competed with thoughts of Freddie de Vere. Did he ever think of her? Would he write to her as he’d promised? Was the lady of the lake a very lovely thing?
With a sigh she realised that if Freddie were awake, his thoughts were probably all of the war and fighting and death, for she didn’t think it very likely that soldiers had much time or energy to think about love. Nevertheless, she could not shake off the attractive notion that she and Freddie were meant to be together . . .
The following morning at seven thirty, Poppy, plus Jameson and ten other new VADs, were met in the dusty lounge of the
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