Even the last of the flowers on the red-hot pokers in the garden at home would have died by this time of year—that is, if they had not been dug from the border months before to make room for vegetables.  Her heart was dying, too.
Well, it seemed so.  She knew that it wasn’t really.  (She was a nurse, after all, even though she’d only just finished her training before coming here.)  Adrian pushed the trolley down the ward, putting a mug of water by each patient.  Once again, she almost stopped at the empty bed by habit, but caught herself and walked past.  Soon enough some training casualty would be transferred, she supposed; but it would be a new face and a new voice.
She put the trolley away, and greeted Simsie as she came in and sat down at the desk at the end of the ward.  Then she went along to the kitchen to make her a cup of coffee.  The water was icy cold, and the kettle sat obstinately on the ring, lapped by blue flame, and wouldn’t boil.
It was good to sit at the wooden table, finally, finally getting off her feet.  Yet the kitchen also held dear memories—memories of her first days here, when the maids had left so suddenly but the c.o.s had not yet come, so it had been the nurses doing the chores.  (In common with all the nurses, she thoroughly appreciated the c.o.s and the work that they did.  She wished her father could meet them.  The reality was so far different from his indignation at the dinner table.)  She had stood at that sink, her hands going soggy in the soapy water as she washed up the patients’ breakfast dishes, dinner dishes, supper dishes.  The nurses had still been strangers then and all so, so much more experienced than she:  she had yearned for a friendly face.  And then he had popped in to join her … so often he had joined her … setting his crutch aside where he could reach it, leaning back against the table.  Sometimes he’d even grabbed a cloth, stood by the counter beside her, and dried the dishes as she’d washed them.  She had been terrified lest Matron come in, for it was surely against the rules; yet it had been like chatting with a boy from home, like one of her brother’s friends.  She treasured those memories—and knew she should forget them.
The kettle whistled, and she snatched it from the heat before it could disturb the patients, poured a measure of Camp Coffee into one of the thick china cups (so like school), and added some milk.  No sugar:  Matron had made it clear that there was an example to be set; and Simsie insisted she liked it perfectly well that way.
Adrian walked back to the ward.  On the desk in front of the night nurse, in the small pool of light from the lamp, was a sheet of notepaper:  Simsie was clearly taking advantage of the solitary duty to write a letter.  Adrian wondered for a moment whom she was writing.  Family perhaps, or a friend from her last hospital.  (They had talked enough by now for her to know that the older girl did not have a current beau.)  She put down the cup and saucer near the other nurse’s elbow.
“Ah, thank you,” Simsie said.  “Going off now?”
Adrian cast a glance down the ward.  “A quiet night,” she murmured.  “No ops today.  I think everyone’s dropped off.”
“Well, at least we won’t see Odell sneaking off to see Raynes.”  There was an odd sneer to Simsie’s lips, though she kept her voice low enough.  She had said much the same a couple of nights before, with the same knowing sneer—though what knowledge it portended, Adrian didn’t know.  (And if it was an invitation to gossip freely about someone who was no longer here to defend himself, then she didn’t want to hear, either.)  It was true, though:  they would not, this night, see Laurie slip quietly from his bed to visit Andrew in the kitchen for his usual chat over the washing up.  She wondered now why she had never thought to join them there; but, after a day on the ward, she was always too tired to think of more than bed.
She returned to the kitchen and put the kettle back on the hob.  Not coffee: she had never learned to like it, though her mother brewed a pot occasionally, always with a complaint about the quantity of beans required.  No, she dearly wanted a nice cup of tea.  She fetched down the canister from the shelf and opened it.
Already hot, the water came quickly back to the boil.  She swished some round the smallest of the pots; spooned in a pinch of tea, though not quite enough; filled up; and let it steep for longer than usual to compensate.  It would not, of course, be a truly nice cup of tea.  She was resigned to that.  Some of the nurses simply complained that it was too weak, which was true; but, in her opinion, it was just inferior altogether.  Of course, one could not expect the best Darjeeling at the hospital.  (She rather suspected that Matron kept her own stash; but, if so, it was never shared.  She had thought of buying her own as well, one day off when she took the bus into Bridstow; and then thought better of it, knowing that, if she shared, it wouldn’t last, and, if she didn’t, it would be resented.)
He had understood when she complained.  Oh, it had only been a little, for one had to put up with petty privations.  There was a war on, after all.  However, she had spoken fairly freely after the first few days.  (Oh, she had felt she knew him so well!  And yet, as it turned out, there was too much that he had not told her until just before he left.)  Of course, as a man and a soldier he was used to eating what he could get; still, he had confided that his mother preferred China tea when she could get it.
It must surely be as steeped as it could be.  She poured, skipping the sugar with regret, sat at the table by herself, and drank it as slowly as she could.  Then she washed up, and left for the hut that she shared with three other nurses.  (Yes, indeed, it was so much like school.  One was never alone.)
McLeod was a silent hump under the blanket.  No one else was there.  Adrian took off her watch and placed it on the locker by her bed.  On top were two cards:  from her parents, and—rather less precious—from her sister-in-law.  She picked up the former, opened it, and read yet again the brief, loving message inside.  It was almost Christmas.  If only she could be going home, for even just a few days.  A poor wartime Christmas it would be, of course; but they would decorate the parlour with paper chains saved from last year, and pool their coupons for the holiday dinner.  Christmas was family; it always had been.
If Laurie had not had his mother and her new husband to go to, then perhaps she could have invited him home for Christmas with her.  Her parents would always welcome a friend of hers—a wounded soldier to boot!  But, of course, that was impossible.  There would be no leave for her this year … nor for the other nurses, either.  Nor the patients, come to that.
She put down the Christmas card, picked her brush off the locker, and began her nightly ritual.  Would he get leave?  Or had he been discharged already, free to go home at will to visit his mother?  She did not know.  He had said he would write, but so far no letter had arrived.
He had said he would write.  But had he truly meant it?  The days had passed and then the weeks; and she was becoming more certain that he had said it only to make her happy.  After all, if it should be that he wasn’t sure of the address, the Post Office was very good at interpreting misdirection:  ‘the E.M.S. hospital near Bridstow’ ought to find her.  It all suggested that there was no letter, never had been, and probably had never been intended to have been.
Of course, she had written Laurie.  She had posted her first letter care of the hospital in Bridstow; and then written another letter a couple of weeks later, addressing it to his old college in Oxford.  She knew they, at least, would keep it for his arrival, and he’d slip the porter a half a crown for the service.  As she brushed her hair, she wondered:  should she write again, care of his mother?  She knew the name of the village, and could simply address her letter to ‘The Vicarage’.  Mrs Odell—now Mrs Straike—would surely know Laurie’s current address and send a letter on.
Should she write?
No.  There was no point.  There was no future in their friendship:  he had told her, hadn’t he?  He had told her that he loved another.  If he truly felt like that then … why then she was glad that there was no letter (or almost glad there was no letter), for surely the sharp cut was the kindest.
She wondered whether Andrew had had a letter from Laurie.  No doubt, bravely in London with the ambulances, he’d appreciate it even more than she.  And she could hardly wish less joy for him than she wished for herself:  she’d always liked him.
Adrian brushed her hair the requisite hundred strokes, her eyes welling tears.  But there were no knots in her hair.