Page 21 of Summer in Greece

‘Miss Smith, decorum, please!’

I turned. ‘Sorry, Matron. I got carried away.’ Clearly, I was destined to be scolded by Matron on a regular basis.

‘Do remember, we represent our king and country, so we will not behave like children at a Punch and Judy show.’

‘Yes, Matron. It won’t happen again.’ But I could not contain my grin. ‘It’s my parents, they came to see me off! There, Matron, down on the portside.’ I pointed.

She raised her eyebrows and stretched her neck. ‘And ladies don’t point unless it’s an emergency. What is the world coming to?’

I dropped my arm. ‘No, of course they don’t. Sorry, Matron, I am too excited.’

Matron peered down her nose and shook her head in a despairing manner, but as she turned away, I caught the glimmer of a smile.

Down on the dock, people gathered in likeminded clusters. Some younger people cheered rowdily, whistling, and waving little flags or handkerchiefs up towards us. Other assemblies were subdued, saddened, clutching each other, gloved hands flapping awkwardly towards the ship.

The point of no return came at two fifteen in the afternoon. My heart thumped as the stevedores lifted rope loops off the mooring stanchions, severing the umbilical to my motherland.

I was on my own now. An adult at the start of a new life. Out of the nest, I was about to test my wings. Could I fly without my father there to catch me? With Sissy’s spirit behind me, I would help to save the life of some other mother’s son, and make my family proud.

With the lines slipped, the great vessel eased away. The clang of the ships bell added to an atmosphere of celebration. Shrill farewells rose on the air, then they were drowned by an uproarious rendition of ‘Rule, Britannia!’, played by a local brass band. My ebullience at embarking on this great adventure swiftly morphed into a feeling of loss and loneliness. My country, and my dearest friends and family, slipped away from me.

Low sunlight hit the promenade, stretching shadows into thin grey ghosts on the pale cement. They grew smaller and more distant by the second. People moved away, heading for the public house, or home. My eyes fixed on my parents, still as statues, and I understood every bit of their sense of loss. At that moment, it matched my own.

*

The purser – a short, dapper man – told us of the incredible power of HMHS Britannic’s engines. He caught my eye, and I sensed he was trying to impress me, which made me blush.

‘The Britannic’s stronger and far safer than her sister ship, Titanic.’ The purser presented facts and figures that meant nothing to me before he handed us over to Matron. I tried to memorise the things he told us, thinking I could put them into my first letter home and impress Father.

I imagined him looking up from the page. ‘You see how much she has learned already, my dear. Our girl has a good head on her shoulders.’ And Mother would be amazed.

Matron Merriberry, a powerful woman who carried the weight of middle age with dignity, led us around the vessel.

‘Pay attention, ladies,’ she boomed, glaring at each of us, then her face softening. ‘We’re honoured to be given this vessel for our work. The Britannic would have been the most luxurious passenger ship of the White Star Line, and indeed of the world. However, for the moment her more ornate fittings, and her magnificent pipe organ, lay in storage. That space is taken by operating rooms, surgeries, and wards with over three thousand beds.’ She threw her shoulders back, then continued. ‘Before you descend to your designated cabins, follow me around the ship and familiarise yourselves.’

We walked behind her, all eyes on her rotund derrière for a moment. Clearly, Matron was not fond of a tight corset. She swung her wide hips with the vigour that made me proud to be a woman. Mother would be shocked, but then Mother didn’t think we should be fighting for the vote, or saying one single word against sending our brothers to be blown to pieces in the war, or objecting to us women getting half the pay of men for the same job.

We followed Matron into the first-class dining room, now converted into an intensive care ward. Here, the seriously wounded would stay. We presented our papers to the chief medical officer, along with our blood group card. I was O, the most common and the most needed. The transfusion procedure was a new and marvellous thing that saved many lives. The technique consisted of two glass tubes, one inserted into the donor, the other into the recipient, with a length of rubber hose between. The very idea of having to do this horrified me, and I was relieved when Matron assured us it was only on a voluntary basis.

The first-class staterooms accommodated the hospital elite: doctors, medical corps officers, the chaplain, and Matron herself, of course. We VADs, nurses and orderlies resided in third-class cabins at the front of F deck. My cabinmate, Nurse Josephine, and our neighbours – trainee nurses, Barbara, Joan and Patricia – were great fun. Together, the five of us settled in, sure we would become friends for life. F deck was a fine place to be, until they raised or lowered the anchor. Then, the ribs and girders of the Britannic transferred that peculiar cacophony through our accommodation.

A magnificent din also struck up when the stokers’ shift changed. The spiral staircase leading down to the firemen’s tunnel was right behind our cabin. The coalmen, in hobnailed boots, clomped up a racket at the change of each shift. Up and down the metal steps they clattered with no regard for the tremendous noise that rang in our ears.

When the stomping stopped, and I broke the silence with a sigh of relief, the monstrous watertight fire doors below us trundled to a close with a final thud that shook third class. As we worked twelve-hour shifts, we only suffered the stokers’ racket once every twenty-four hours. Just to have a bed would be bliss, and sharing a bathroom hardly mattered.

Dinner was almost formal, and held in the grand dining room. Four hundred medical staff dined together. As we ate, I imagined how marvellous it would be to travel as a passenger on the ship. I felt homesick from time to time, and dreamed of Mother’s delicious toad in the hole.

I discovered a great advantage to being on F deck. Just down the corridor was the glorious white-tiled swimming bath! With teak ladders at each end, entering the water was far easier than going into the sea at home. A row of changing rooms on the port side of the poolroom reminded me of beach huts in St Margaret’s Bay, at home. The starboard side was lined with patterned marble, and luxuriously lit by gold sconces. I couldn’t wait to swim in such sumptuous surroundings.

I had just unpacked when the steward delivered a parcel addressed in my mother’s hand. What luxuries I discovered! A tin of Dundee cake, four tablets of coal tar soap, a precious slab of chocolate, and a carefully wrapped book. I imagined Mother thinking of me while she packed everything. She probably shed a tear for Sissy, too. Dear Mother. How I would miss her. I wanted to hug her right then.

The book was filled with pictures of women workers in factories, bronzing and soldering and making high-explosive shells, amongst other things. I could imagine Mother being shocked by what she saw. The author, Minister of Munitions, Mr Lloyd George, claimed: ‘there were never such useful or dedicated workers as the women of the munitions’ factories.’

My heart swelled knowing darling Sissy had worked in a place like this. Row upon row of missiles, thousands of them. Women, it was true, had their heads wrapped like puddings in a muslin cloth. I could never have imagined the scene just from Sissy’s letters.

I turned another page and gasped with shock. There she was! My darling sister, an angel in heaven for almost a year and so badly missed, yet she stared up from the page smiling right into my eyes as if she knew this very moment would happen.

I was crying without realising and ignored a knock on the cabin door. I just wanted to absorb the brightness of my precious sister’s smile.