Andrews, the ship’s painter with a broken leg, piped up. ‘Look outside, nurse. Flat as glass it is. Besides, they’re twenty-five feet above the water line, I know, I was painting around the portholes below us when the cradle tipped and dropped me onto the quayside.’ He pointed to his leg strapped into one of our new Thomas splints.

‘What’s the point of portholes if not to ventilate the deck?’ Perkins said. ‘Just open them for ten minutes. Let in some fresh air.’

‘Go on, nurse! Do us all a favour,’ another patient cried. ‘Ten minutes won’t hurt. Worse than mustard gas, that stench is.’

They all joined in, bullying and teasing and doing their best to embarrass me.

‘Stop it! All right, that’s enough now! Just while I’m in the sluicing room.’ I rushed the length of the ward, turning hefty bronze pivots and swinging the portholes open. For a moment I was Sissy: in control, in charge, doing the job and being competent . . . and it felt wonderful!

The men clapped and cheered. Still blushing, but soaking up the glory, I scurried off to the sluice room, returning with a mop, bucket, and hand shovel, when repeated short blasts followed by a long blast on the foghorn reverberated through the ward.

‘Of all the times to have a muster-stations drill! Right, I’m going to give you all your lifesavers, try and get them on yourselves. I have to mop up this mess and close the portholes before Staff Nurse returns or I’ll be for it!’

I had hardly started when the corridor filled with rushing nurses. Gloria, a fellow VAD, rushed into the ward first, skidded on the slurry, and with a loud squeal, landed on her bottom in the mess.

Staff Nurse followed. ‘Heavens above!’ she bellowed almost slipping over too. ‘What bedlam is this?’

I tried to explain while, in a great flurry of activity, the other nurses helped patients into their lifesavers.

‘It’s not a drill, this is the real thing, Gertie,’ Staff Nurse snapped. ‘Hurry, fetch your lifesaver, papers and valuables and return to your muster station immediately. Quick as you can now!’

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

SHELLY

Dover, present day.

SHELLY HAD MADE HERSELF LATE by dragging the trunk to the top of the stairs, but how would she get it down? She barged into the kitchen with the toothbrush sticking out of her mouth, stabbed the kettle switch to on, and was about to race back to the bathroom when she realised her father and the postman were sitting at the table. Relieved that she’d pulled her robe over her underwear, she bid them good morning.

‘Malcolm’s brought the post, Shelly, so I invited him in for a cuppa. Would you like to take the weight off your feet while I make you a brew?’ Gordon said.