Jo White- Woman at War

Chapter One

Part I: Letters and Waltzes

"What does it say?" I ask, keeping my gaze lowered to the ripped petticoat laying in my lap, as my foot anxiously patters at the floor. I wait a moment before daring a glance to my tiring mother who has been sat in father's armchair for several minutes studying the paper scrawled in her son's handwriting, "Mother,"

"He's keeping well, and he hopes we still attend the weekly dances," she replies, sharply, tucking the now folded letter into her apron.

"May I see it?" I ask, hopefully.

"No, you may not. The letter is addressed to me. If your brother wishes to send any messages to you, I'm sure he will write to you directly," she cuts, standing and smoothing down her winter skirts to stand by the fireplace. I open my mouth to reply, a breath away from delivering a sharp comment but I can't help but sympathise with the greying mother in front of me who although her eyes are cast deep within the flames of the fireplace are a ghost of the once brilliant blue. Instead I sigh quietly and reside myself to mending the tear in the great fabric of cloth, that I had damaged while darting through the woods with Jack. It's odd but I've wanted to keep it torn, and only mend it when Jack returned but mother says that there is little time to be sentimental in times of war, so not wanting to upset her any more, I have begun stitching it with no great skill or success as yet.

"I have a shift in an hour, and was thinking of stopping by Post Office on the way back. Is there anything you need?" I ask, politely, conscious of the ticking clock that sits on the mantlepiece.

"Only some bread, you'll have to use the ration vouchers they are on the side in the kitchen," she murmurs distantly.

"Alright," I reply cheerily, now eyeing the shallow figure with concern, "Are you sure that's all?"

"Yes, thank you," she says, turning quickly and fleeing up the stairs without even a glance to me, presumably to curl herself up in bed and huddle over her son's letters until the next arrives. I press my hands against the cotton that lays slumped on my lap, also finding myself missing the stability that comes with a full household of two brothers; one boisterous and rough the other kind and intelligent, a father whose careful considered manner presided over all.

I trip my way rather clumsily upstairs, reaching my room that was littered with miscellaneous paperwork and clothes dumped by the beside in favour of crisp sheets that were comforting after twelve hours of nursing the sick in the local hospital. I slip into the grey dress of a rigid cloth, fitted with impractical white cuffs and collar that itched, layering the womanly design with a white apron that was already fading and dusty and polishing the regretful design with a similarly fading cap that pinned my sandy locks back, arguably the one part of the costume that bore any practicality.

"I wish you wouldn't leave your room such a mess," mother says, from the doorframe.

"It's my room, mother, I'll clean it as I see fit," I reply curtly, scooping a pile of laundry into a corner.

"A good nurse would never be so undisciplined," she comments. I inhale sharply and glance back at her through the mirror.

"I never wanted to be a nurse, I wanted to be a doctor and I'm terribly sorry if I don't match your expectation as a domestic goddess," I snap, aware even in the flame of the argument that I regretted my comments but was far too wound up in my bitterness at her not showing me the letter. I snatch the coat off its place on the back of my door and quickly step downstairs, stuffing keys into my coat pocket without the hole I had neglected to mend.

"Miss White, late again I see," Matron comments, her loose grey hair shaking in distain, as I twist my hair into my cap.

"I'm not late matron, I am here two minutes before my shift starts," I reply, smiling tightly.