‘You can tell me anything at all, child,’ he said, swirling his drink, then lifting his head to stare at me.

‘I want to be a surgeon.’ There, I’d said it.

‘Ha!’ he exclaimed. ‘Don’t look like that, Gertie! You’ve no idea what being a surgeon involves. When people die in your hands—’

‘Excuse me interrupting, Father. I’ve assisted at one hundred and sixty-seven operations. Twenty-nine of our patients died on the table, but this was simply because their wounds were too catastrophic, or they had lost too much blood.’ I put down my drink, turned my hand over, and pushed my sleeve above the small scars in my arm. ‘Look, I’ve given direct blood transfusions, via the glass tube, to five patients, four of whom survived. The first one of those patients was in the lifeboat, and the procedure saved the man’s life.’

Father lifted his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, I’m shocked. And you still want to be a surgeon?’

‘More than anything in the world.’

‘Then I’m proud of you, and relieved that you’re home, safe. You have my total support, Gertie.’

This was not the response I expected. ‘But there are no women surgeons. Where would I start?’

‘Exactly where you are now, in the field hospitals. Do everything you can, show you are not afraid. Offer to take over. Most importantly, prove that you can lead a team of medics, because you cannot do the job alone. Get organised, get a reputation, and get all the knowledge you can absorb. Make people remember you because – and this is important for you to understand, Gertie – this war will not last forever! There will always be a shortage of good surgeons. This is an exciting time for women. An opportunity to prove yourselves. Be brave and rise to the challenge.’ He went to the bookcase, pulled out a thick volume and handed it to me. ‘Start with Matron’s book, then this. Learn it cover to cover. I’ll test you every evening over supper.’ He handed me his wine-coloured tome. ‘Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body.’

I went to sleep feeling relieved. Did my father believe the newspapers? Did he believe I had opened the portholes? Merriberry must have guessed it was me, although it could have been any one of the patients while I was in the sluice room. Had she told my father? I got the impression they had spent time together. Not one person had asked me straight out if I had opened the portholes.

Memories of the mob outside the cottage concerned me. Clearly, they believed everything in the papers? Poor Mr Boniface, to lose his youngest son. I couldn’t even remember seeing the boy.

*

I was having breakfast when the mob returned. The sound of hammering on the front door made me jump. ‘Who is it?’ I asked through the letterbox.

‘The Morning Standard, miss. Can I ask you a few questions?’