an
excerpt from...
Enduring Love
by William Stewart
CHAPTER ONE - WORLDS APART
‘You want to leave? Why ever?’ Colonel Knox frowned and looked over her glasses. ‘Why? You’re doing so well here.’
‘I think I need a change from general nursing, ma’am.’ Anne knew she was only telling half the truth. ‘I saw the notice about the Neuro course at Wheatley, so...’
‘Well, I shall be sorry to lose you, but Colonel Hobbs will be delighted.’ The Colonel smiled. ‘Of course, you might not be accepted!’ Then seeing Anne’s look, she said, ‘Of course you will.’ She got up from behind her desk, and moved round to Anne’s side. Putting her hand on Anne’s shoulder she said softly, ‘It’s not just the work, is it?’
Anne shook her head, feeling that if Matron was any more sympathetic she would start blubbering, and that would never do. ‘I’ll get over it, ma’am.’
‘Of course you will.’
That was a month ago, now Anne breathed a sigh of relief as she turned round to make sure there was nothing of hers left in the room. Not even one of her own coat-hangers. The bedclothes neatly folded – unnecessary, as one of the Mess maids would have done that, but that was Anne. Shrugging into her grey greatcoat, settling her grey cap, trimmed with maroon, on her head, slinging her black shoulder bag over her left shoulder, and picking up her two cases – her other luggage having been sent on ahead – she moved off down the corridor, through the opulent Mess rooms of Millbank hospital out of the imposing oak-panelled door and into the waiting taxi.
As the taxi drove off down the Embankment, toward Waterloo station, Anne looked back at the grey stone buildings that had been her place of work, and her home for the past eighteen months. She sighed again, and felt tears prick her eyes. Millbank hospital had been a good posting, and it still would have been if Steve hadn’t played up. She thought of the past month, and of Steve, her main reason for leaving London. Their parting had been as cold as this near-Siberian weather. Anne shivered.
Taking a deep breath, which turned into a splutter in the cold December air – even the taxi driver was wearing mitts – she tried to shake off the feeling of depression. I won’t let him get to me. He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it.
Now Anne was on her way, first to spend three weeks leave at home, then Wheatley. She tried to forget saying goodbye to the patients, the staff, her colleagues, friends at the local church. ‘You’ll be back’ they said. Anne was not sure she wanted to come back. She did not want to punish herself. Maybe if Steve...
‘Here you are, Miss,’ said the taxi driver, as they drew up the long slope to back entrance of Waterloo. ‘Can you manage? I’d get a porter, if I were you. Thank you, ma’am’ he said, touching his cap as Anne paid and tipped him. ‘Merry Christmas, ma’am, and a Happy nineteen-fifty-six, when it comes.’
‘Thank you, and the same to you.’ He gave a cheery wave. Anne picked up her cases and moved slowly towards the barrier.
‘Portsmouth?’ said the ticket collector, glancing at her travel warrant. ‘On the left. Ten minutes past four.’
* * *
‘Well, sergeant,’ said the Commanding Officer of Beaconsfield, Education Corps Depot, ‘you know what this is about?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, less than one year left and I need to talk with you about your future. Have a seat, by the way.’
‘Thank you sir.’
‘So what are your plans? Going to sign on?’ The CO appraised this fine young man and half knew what his answer would be.
Colin smiled, and shook his head. ‘No sir. Three years will be enough for me.’
‘Let me see,’ said the Colonel, glancing at Colin’s file, ‘First Class degree in languages at Oxford, picked to play rugby for the Army, good record in Korea and Hong Kong, working with literacy classes, and now at Bicester doing the same. You certainly have done well.’
‘Thank you sir. I’ve enjoyed it – all round. Looking forward to the rugby play-off. You know, sir, that’s been one of the great things about the army, being encouraged to play sports, and for me, swimming and rugby.’’
‘So, what about plans for the future? No hope of you staying in, I suppose?’
Colin laughed. ‘I know you’d like me to say yes, but my heart is set on a second degree in Law at Oxford.’ Seeing the question on the face of the CO he added, ‘Yes, everything’s all set for November next year.’
‘Right, then, Sergeant,’ said the C.O., standing and extending his hand, ‘I’ll see you again before you finally leave us. Now I suppose it’s home for Christmas?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ Colin saluted and left, watched by the C.O. who shook his head sadly. So many good men like Dixon, wish we could keep them. Brilliant future.
* * *
Anne flicked through a glossy magazine, bought off the stand on the station, anything to distract her thoughts that kept wandering back to Millbank, then from there to her new posting in the New Year. Home! The thought filled her with a warm glow. Three whole weeks. Unbelievable.
Try as she might, though, she could not help but think about Steve. They had met a year after she arrived at Millbank Hospital, where he had been recently appointed as medical specialist. With everything to offer, looks, well-qualified, single, five years older than Anne, and very eligible, the Sisters had all set their caps at him, and did not hide their envy when Anne, so someone said, ‘won the lottery.’ Their friendship developed, and there was every indication that it would progress further. Steve got on well with Anne’s family, who approved of him. Then things started to go wrong.
The train clattered its way toward Portsmouth Harbour. Anne felt her spirits rise as she passed St Mary’s Hospital, My hospital, she said to herself, craning her neck to try and catch sight of the ward she last worked on.
‘Portsmouth Town’, yelled the guard. ‘Portsmouth Harbour next stop.’ He blew his whistle and the train drew slowly away from the upper level. Anne gathered her things together.
‘Anne, love!’ She was in the strong arms of her father, and, ignoring her officer’s uniform, was struggling to find her father’s lips through his thick beard. She laughed as he deliberately tickled her with it.
‘Oh, dad! You know your beard always makes me feel funny at the knees. Stop it!’
They laughed as he picked up her cases and together they moved toward his car. ‘Mum said to make sure I brought you straight home.’
‘Then you’d better get cracking! She’ll be watching the clock, you know how she is for time.’
Before the car was at a halt, Mary Webster was out of the door and half way down the short path, not even waiting to put on a coat over her apron.
‘Mum, you’ll catch your death,’ Anne gasped as she was swamped within her mother’s arms.
‘My, it’s good to have you back. And three whole weeks, too. Isn’t that just great, George? Come on in. Bring her cases, love.’
‘Aye, lass,’ said George, half-way to doing just that.
Anne sighed with pleasure as her mother bustled her through the front door of the little terraced house, in Charlotte Street, which had been the Webster’s home all their married life, while George had served in the Navy, and now that he was retired and working at the Dockyard. She stopped and looked with fondness down the street, where, only two years before they had celebrated the Coronation, and a few years before that, the street party to end the war, and her dad’s return.
* * *
Colin Dixon stepped off the ten o’clock train at Pulborough three days before Christmas, to be met by his parents, Gerald and Faith. Their Rover 90 car, black, with maroon upholstery, and solid elegance, took them the five miles to Storrington, a sleepy little Sussex town at the foot of the South Downs. ‘Looks like snow,’ commented Mr Dixon.’
‘Oh, I do hope so,’ added Mrs Dixon, leaning slightly forward from the back seat, ‘A white Christmas. Lovely! All the family around us, Gerald. Won’t that be nice.’
‘Yes, dear. Nice.’ Half turning towards Colin, he said, ‘Last Christmas you were in Hong Kong, and by this time next year, my boy, you’ll be back at Oxford...’
Interrupting, and leaning forward to rest her arms on the front seats, the large pheasant feather in her hat tickling Colin’s cheek, Mrs Dixon said, ‘But we won’t think of that, just yet, will we, dear?’ Gerald sighed, knowing full well that talk of Oxford usually led to arguments.
A mile out of Storrington, on the Worthing road, within the parish of Sullington, came the familiar and imposing road sign, ‘South Downs Preparatory School for young gentlemen.’ To the right and in the distance stood a regal-looking stone building – South Downs School– approached by a long, winding drive, home for Colin for as long as he could remember.
The house had been built for the Prince Regent, as a half-way stop to Brighton, and was given to the Dixon family by the Prince when he became king, a gift of gratitude to a loyal general, Sir William Dixon. The Dixon family had been in Sullington for two hundred years or more, and their names were inscribed on a plaque in the church. Gerald’s father had tried in vain to keep the place up together, and only reluctantly agreed to Gerald turning it into a school, which he had done twenty-three years before.
The school looked out over the valley, with spacious grounds, once pleasure gardens, now a mixture of playing fields and tennis courts. The Dixon’s occupied the South wing of the school, and it was to their door that the car drew up.
Colin was glad to be home, but almost as soon as he walked through the front door, he felt the pressure of his mother’s fastidiousness which would not allow a cushion out of place. ‘There, dear. Sit yourself down, and I’ll get some coffee. Do mind that rug, dear.’ She tut-tutted as she bent down and straightened the rich Indian rug as it slid on the gleaming parquet floor. ‘Daddy will take your case up. No, no arguments. You rest dear.’ She bustled off in a flurry of pleated skirt, leaving behind her a lingering smell of expensive perfume. Colin eyed his father, resignedly taking up Colin’s case. Nobody argued with Faith Dixon.
* * *
‘Anne, dear,’ Mary Webster leaned forward on the table, after they had finished their meal, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong, mum?’
‘Aye, lass,’ George joined in. ‘You’re not your usual bright self. And don’t you say it’s because you’re tired, for that’s not true.’
‘Leave her be, love,’ Mary gave him a warning look. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it.’
‘About what, mum?’
‘Steve?’ asked her father.
Anne suddenly went hot. ‘No, I’d rather not, thanks. I told you, it’s over between us.’
Mary noticed the tightening of Anne’s fingers around her cup and the flush on her cheeks, and silenced George with another look.
‘Isn’t it your night for the Club, dad?’
‘Aye, but...’
‘You go. Don’t stay in for me. Mum and I will be fine. Won’t we, mum?’
‘We will. You go, love and leave us hens to cackle.’
‘Right, then. I’ll be off. See you about ten. I’ve got my key.’
As they washed up the dishes, Anne said, ‘Can I tell you about...about Steve, mum?’ She busied herself in the suds, washing a plate more than once. ‘I knew you and dad would be disappointed, but...’ Anne felt again the flush of anger as she remembered. ‘He...he wanted to go beyond kissing, mum, and I was absolutely horrified. "No, Steve, please," I said, "Wait till we’re married." Anne’s hands gripped the sink, struggling with her tears.
‘Here, love, come and sit down.’ Mary Webster put her arm around Anne and led her to the settee.
‘I want to tell you, mum, but I feel so ashamed. Did I lead him on...?’
‘Oh, Anne! That’s a shocking thing to think, let alone say. You? Lead him on? Never! What was it?’
‘"Marriage?" he snapped at me, his lip curling. I couldn’t believe it was the same man. "Who said anything about marriage? Anyway, that’s old-fashioned."
‘I remember jumping up and my face must have been red with anger. "In that case, Steve, we have nothing further to say to each other," and I walked out.’
‘You poor dear. That’s awful. He seemed such a...’
‘Nice man? Oh, yes. Nice, good looking, good position and he had all the Sisters running after him. They’re welcome to him.’ She finished with a sob.
‘There, dear. Here, have my hanky. Cry it out, that’s what I say. Is that why you asked for a posting?’
Anne nodded, trying to get hold of her feelings.
‘Well, you’re here now, and it’ll soon be Christmas, and the others will be here, too. All together again. Kate’s managed to get time off from St Mary’s and Kevin’ ship is due in the day before Christmas Eve. Lovely!’
Anne smiled. Although the house was cramped when they were all home, nobody minded. The place would ring with laughter, laughter that would help to chase away the pain of betrayal.
* * *
Dinner at ‘South Downs’ was always perfect, but strained. Gerald and Faith Dixon - President of the local W I – lived quite separate lives, revolving in different worlds, coming together only over dinner and breakfast. Dinner was always an affair, with glass and cutlery polished to gleaming pitch. The Dixon silver with an eagle’s head on it glittered. A snowy-white, used-only-once damask napkin folded neatly, and a silver candelabra in the centre, and new candles.
‘For what we are about to receive...’ droned Gerald. ‘Amen’ said the others. Faith Dixon was an excellent cook, priding herself in her repertoire of unusual dishes. ‘My latest cordon bleu dish, darling, made specially for you.’ Colin liked coming home, but... He eyed his plate, the beautifully arranged food, exquisite colouring and delicious, but hardly enough to feed a sparrow. ‘Huge helpings are so vulgar, don’t you think?’ his mother often said. Not that she was stingy, but one of her fictitious, upper-crust characters, upon whom Faith seemed to have modelled herself, had used those words, and Faith frequently trotted them out, as if it were fact, feeling that she was letting people see that she had definite taste. Added to that, she had never grasped the fact that her six foot, sixteen stone, rugby-playing son needed more than delicate helpings. Colin eyed the homemade custard, slipped neatly out of its dish and dripping with caramel, resting on a delicate bone china place, and had a fantasy of demolishing it in one mouthful, but resisted. Anything other than a delicate slicing of the mound with the tip of the silver spoon would have caused his mother’s eyebrows to arch in horror. He smiled inwardly, remembering the weeks in Korea when they existed on bare rations, eaten out of the metal mess tin, which served for everything.
‘Sorry, what did you say, mother?’
‘I said, dear, and please do pay attention, you will go and see Aunt Eleanor when you go back.’
‘Naturally. I always do.’ He felt cross. Why did she always have to organise his life? ‘Anything else to eat, mother?’
‘You’re not still hungry, surely! After all that. I feel quite bloated.’ Faith drew herself up in her chair, and patted her tummy. ‘Yes, quite bloated. I could find you another caramel custard. Delicious wasn’t it, Gerald.’
‘Yes, dear. Delicious.’
‘I was thinking of something more substantial. Treacle pudding, or some...’
‘Treacle pudding!’ Faith shuddered. Colin thought she was going to say, ‘Ugh’, but decided that such an expression would falter on her lips. Faith had been determined to ‘be somebody’ and had taken drama and elocution lessons when she was young, so her diction was always precise. ‘Please speak clearly, Colin,’ she frequently said when he was a boy. And now, as ‘Mrs Headmaster’ as the boys called her behind her back, she would not permit any form of slovenly talk and was not averse to creeping up behind unsuspecting boys as they wandered in the grounds and pouncing on them if they dared to utter one slang, or ill-formed word.
Colin felt he had uttered the severest blasphemy or committed the utmost transgression by asking for treacle pudding.
‘There is some apple pie in the refrigerator, darling – homemade, naturally.’
Colin rose and went through to the fridge. Half a plate pie, just asking to be eaten. He resisted the urge, cut a respectable slice, covered it in custard and sat down at the table. Mrs Dixon took a sharp intake of breath and momentarily closed her eyes at the awful sight of her beautiful china swamped in custard. She touched her lip corners delicately with her napkin, then rose to make the coffee. Gerald Dixon looked at Colin and winked. Colin was astonished. Never had his father done that. He winked back.
Father said, ‘Sophia and Charles won’t be here, I’m afraid...’
‘Sophia and Charles?’ said mother, wheeling in the coffee trolley, ‘most disappointing. We’ve always spent Christmas Day here. Haven’t we Gerald? And now? They want to be by themselves, they said. I really cannot think why. Two years Sophia has been married, and they want to be alone! But never mind, darling, you’ll be here, and we can have our lovely long walk on the Downs after church.’ Mrs Dixon positively glowed at the thought. Colin grimaced inwardly. He loved his mother very much, but...!
Copyright © 2001 William Stewart