Page 10 of Summer in Greece

*

The shortage of doctors meant we hardly saw Father. When we did, it was clear that Arthur’s death had taken its toll. Gone was the bombastic man who laid down the law. He quietly withdrew into himself. I took over his beloved pigeons when he hadn’t the time. Since the start of the war, his birds had been used by the Pigeon Corps. Often, theirs were the only form of correspondence received by our leaders at home, from the officers on the remote front line.

The coop was built onto the outside of the house, with steps leading up to it, as the attic was Mother’s sewing room. A maid’s bell in the kitchen was attached to a wire across the coop entrance and when it rang, I climbed the ladder, found the bird, removed the canister from its leg, and cycled hurriedly to the police station.

Every fortnight, a despatch rider would arrive on a motorbike and sidecar. He’d take a dozen birds away, and I’d await their return. I was paid generously – twenty shillings a week – and they also supplied a sack of corn for the birds. I loved my job, although sometimes the young policemen would tease me and make me blush. I wanted to follow Sissy and be a nurse and there’s no place for shyness in nursing, so it was vital I gain control of my fiery cheeks as soon as possible.

Life reached an uneasy harmony, but then we received a letter from France. Sissy had come down with the Spanish influenza, which was killing people faster than the war. We were all afraid and watched each other for the symptoms: headache, temperature, dry cough.

Please, Sissy, get better soon!

I was sitting under the tree, about to read one of my sister’s letters. In my mind’s eye, I could see her smiling face and hear her so clearly.

It’s a brave new world, Gertie. Make the most of it.

I must have been staring up the lane because suddenly I realised the telegram boy was cycling towards me but I could still hear Sissy’s voice.

Don’t be sad, Gertie. We’ll meet again, I promise you.

I jumped up to run indoors, not wanting to sign for the telegram while Father was out. Before I’d reached the door, I turned and hurried back to the gate, my heart thumping. Unable to speak for the pain of holding back tears, I took the envelope and signed the receipt. There was no way I wanted to put Mother through the agony.

When I turned to walk away, Albert said, ‘Sorry, but you should read it, miss, in case you want to send a reply.’

I stood there like a fool – what should I do?

Albert said, ‘Do you want me to read it to you?’

It was too much. I shook my head and tore it open.

It is with deep regret . . .

The influenza had quickly turned into pneumonia. Despite the doctors’ efforts, in a matter of days Sissy had passed away.

The following weeks were dark and empty, and my parents were bleak with sorrow. The funeral drained us all, we felt such loss. Mother continued to set two extra places at the table, and Father withdrew further into himself. I became most aware of how sacred, yet fragile, life is. Despite the continuing bombing raids, life went on without our brave Arthur and my darling Sissy. I searched for a way to make up for my parents’ loss, but all I managed was to feel an immense sense of loneliness.

*

A poster on the police station wall caught my eye. Three women in starched white aprons and clipped veils stood side by side.

VAD. NURSING MEMBERS urgently needed. Apply inside.

Trembling with excitement, I felt Sissy’s spirit rise inside me. I had to try! For the first time since my sister’s death, I felt a glimmer of true purpose.

‘Your father’s not going to be pleased, Gertie,’ Sergeant Miller said, handing me the form. ‘Fill this in and submit it, along with any other relevant papers, at the town hall.’

I raced home again, the wind coursing through my hair. I snatched my St John certificate and my French and German schoolbooks, tossed them into the wicker shopper on the front of my bicycle, and pedalled like fury back into Dover.

My heart was thumping by the time I reached the town hall. I retrieved lipstick, powder, and a compact from under the gas mask in my saddlebag – there was no need to rouge my glowing cheeks but I applied the lipstick.

With all my heart and soul, I ached to nurse the sick and injured, to be the heroine of my own life and the lives of others. To be remembered for who I was, to demonstrate to my parents that I was as valuable as my sister and just as capable of performing noble deeds. Having worshipped Sissy until the day she died, I knew the time had come for me to rise up and prove myself. I hurried up the town hall steps as fast as I could.

My age, eighteen, was a problem, so I lied at the desk. ‘Twenty-three, sir,’ I claimed, knowing this was the minimum for female volunteers. Lucky to be taller than most eighteen-year-olds, I stretched up and proudly lifted my chin.

Had he recognised the lie?

Breathe, look confident, be Sissy! It’s all in a good cause.

‘I’m quite capable, sir,’ I said boldly. My heart thudded as I handed over my papers and flung my shoulders back. ‘I passed my St John exam with merit because my father’s a doctor. Also, as you can see from my notebooks, I am fluent in French, and German.’ This was a gross exaggeration. ‘As you know, sir, these languages are a great advantage in these difficult times.’