Ruth’s shoulders relaxed. She sat in a communal chair and chatted with a few of the women patients, French refugees who’d been admitted for exhaustion and open sores on their feet. Minutes later, Lucette entered in a wheelchair that was being pushed by a young nurse.
“Bonjour,” Lucette said.
“It’s good to see you up and around.” Ruth stood and helped the nurse to place Lucette onto the bed and prop up her bandaged leg.
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” the nurse said, “but we’ll do another round of physiotherapy.”
“I look forward to it,” Lucette said.
The nurse removed a pill from her pocket and placed it on the stand next to a glass of water. “Here’s your sulfa tablet.”
“I’ll take it after I visit with Ruth.”
The nurse nodded and left.
“How was your first treatment?” Ruth asked.
Lucette ran a hand over her bandaged leg. “Painful. The infection is better, but it hurts like hell to bend my knee with stitches.”
Ruth nodded. “The therapy will get you out of here sooner.”
“The doctor told me this morning that I might be released on crutches by the end of the week.”
Ruth smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“I’ve made some progress with locating Aline,” Lucette said. “One of the nurses thinks that the refugee agency took Aline to a London orphanage, but she doesn’t know for sure. We’ve made some telephone inquiries, but haven’t tracked her down.”
“We will,” Ruth said.
“When I get out of here, let’s go straight to London.”
“I agree. After we find her, we need to obtain a government job to serve the war effort, and secure a place to live. Then, I’d like to try to get Aline out of the orphanage to live with us until France is free.” Ruth slipped her hands into the pockets of her dress. “How do you feel about all that?”
Lucette smiled. “It’s a beautiful plan.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Ruth glanced out the window. “I’m going to take a trip to Portsmouth to see Jimmie’s family.”
“When?”
“In a few days.”
“If you wait a bit longer, I could go with you.”
“I’d love your company,” Ruth said, “but I feel that this is something I need to do on my own.”
“All right. If you change your mind, I’m here for you.” Lucette retrieved her pill and glass of water.
The anticipation of meeting with Jimmie’s parents and sister, Nora, caused Ruth’s diaphragm to tighten. She took a deep breath and exhaled. As Lucette placed the pill into her mouth and chased it down with water, Ruth wished for a miracle medicine—one that could erase dreadful memories and mend broken hearts.
CHAPTER 54
PORTSMOUTH, ENGLAND—JUNE 24, 1940
Ruth, her nose filled with a smell of diesel and creosote, traveled down a landing of the Portsmouth & Southsea railway station, and made her way to the street. She hailed a black-colored taxi, climbed into the back seat, and gave the address to a driver. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, her uneasiness grew. How do I even begin to tell them what happened?
The day before, Ruth had rung Jimmie’s mum, Harriet, from a red telephone box on a street corner near the Plymouth City Hospital. She’d explained that she met Jimmie in France and was in possession of his good luck charm that she wished to return. Harriet, her sorrow raw from news about her son, eagerly invited Ruth to visit. “Last month the RAF sent us a telegram informing that Jimmie’s plane was shot down and he’s missing, believed to be killed,” Harriet had said. “I’m hoping you might help us to understand what happened to him.” Ruth expressed her condolences and, rather than discuss details on the telephone, arranged for a date and time to visit. She’d hung up the receiver feeling bitter that the government was imposing secrecy among the Lancastria survivors. I don’t care if I’m punished. Jimmie’s family deserves to know the truth.
The taxi stopped on a tree-lined street of terraced houses with ornate chimney pots.
“That’s the address,” the driver said, pointing to a white door with a transom window.
“Thanks.” She paid the driver, using money given to her from the Salvation Army, and exited the taxi. She walked briskly, trying to shake the collywobbles in her tummy, to the front door. As she prepared to knock, the door swung open.
“Ruth?” a woman with wavy, gray-and-brown hair asked.
“Yes.” Ruth squeezed the handle of her purse, a charity gift from an aid worker.
“I’m Harriet. Please come in.”
Ruth entered and was greeted with a hug.
“This is my husband, Archibald,” Harriet said, turning to a tall man in his fifties who was wearing dark trousers with a blue button-up shirt.
“Welcome, and thank you for coming,” he said. “I wish we were meeting in better circumstances.”
“Me too.” Ruth hugged Archibald.
“Hello,” a female voice said.
