The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [156]
‘Davey…’ I said.
He shook his head quickly. ‘Don’t say anything, Fran. Don’t say a word.’ He jabbed the starter with a trembling finger, and the car rolled down the bumpy track towards the main road.
Right now, with Mam so ill, I couldn’t afford to be sick, so I told myself there was plenty of time to make up my mind what to do. Working in a hospital, I knew there were ways to solve my problem–risky ways. We’d had enough girls in with blood down their legs, trying to persuade the doctor it was nothing but a heavy period.
Lucky I wasn’t the other kind of sick, like some women are in the early months. There was only one thing did it to me and that was the smell of wine. Found that out one morning in church, at communion. The vicar wiped the chalice, I tottered unsteady to my feet, ran up the aisle and out the door. I made it into the fresh air just in time, and lost my breakfast over some old worthy’s tombstone. This wasn’t Christchurch, of course. The devil had settled in that churchyard. Like he’d settled in me.
But wine was easy avoided: there weren’t much about in the war. Only trouble was, tonic wine was popular with the young doctors. God knows where they got hold of it. Cabbage was the worst of them; the nurses said he held parties in his room, tonic wine and pure ethanol in the punch.
Must’ve been the day after one of his famous parties I came across him on one of the wards. He looked terrible, even by junior-doctor standards: curly hair rumpled, purple bags under his eyes, and the eyeballs all veined a watery red.
The sister on Men’s Surgical was a terror. Didn’t matter you weren’t one of her nurses, she’d still dragoon you into doing her bidding.
‘Miss Robinson!’ she said. ‘Dr Prentice being somewhat the worse for wear this morning, perhaps you’d make him a cup of tea. Otherwise we shall never get these dressings done.’ The nurse with her rolled her eyes. I’d only come in to drop off the cigarette rations.
While I was in the sluice waiting for the tea to brew–the nurses always made it from the hot-water cylinder there–Cabbage came in. Hadn’t realized his name was Dr Prentice; to us, he was only ever Cabbage, with his stocky frame and fleshy, flattened nose.
‘I gorra terrible head,’ he said. He leaned over the sink, arms slightly bent. ‘No, won’t come up, more’s the pity’ He belched. ‘Beg pardon. That’s better.’ In his Scouse voice, the word became berra.
The smell was coming off him in waves, cheap sickly red wine, like it had drifted up from the communion cup. He was blocking my way to the door. I tried to hold it back, but the belch was what did it. I elbowed him out of the way and threw up in the sink.
When I came up for air, he was leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed.
‘Know how you feel,’ he said. ‘But not for the same reason, maybe.’ He opened one eye and winked. ‘Earned my best marks on Obs and Gynae. You need birra medical advice, you let me know.’ Written across his hangover pallor was kindness, and genuine concern.
I wiped my mouth on my hankie and muttered something about the Spam fritters in the canteen. Then I stumbled out, leaving him to pour his own tea. In the corridor, the thought of Cabbage’s meaty little hands poking me about almost brought the sickness on again. But at least I knew now who to ask for help.
CHAPTER 41
Solstice
The sky starts to lighten at about three in the morning. I lie there for nearly an hour, watching the curtains turn paler and paler, lying first on one side, then the other in the hope of fooling my body back into sleep. Eventually, when the bedside clock shows four, I unwrap the tangled sheets from my legs, get up and stare out of the window. Nothing moving on the street apart from next door’s cat, dark coat glistening