Got so weary of bein' nothin',
Felt so dreary just doin' nothin'
Things Ain't What They Used To Be - Ellington, 1942
July, 1943
"I say, Cicely, do shake a leg," Samantha Stewart said. She rapped on the bathroom door again. "You've been absolutely hours and I have to get to work."
Work. The thought brought an oppressive heaviness that Sam found quite foreign. After three years of being ready, even eager, to arrive at work and discover what the day, and Mr Foyle, had in store for her, the painstaking, tedious work at Beverley Lodge as bally important as it is, made her want to run screaming in the opposite direction.
Not that she would, of course. There was a war on, and sacrifices had to be made. And having a job one loathes is not nearly as much of a sacrifice as charging into enemy fire or being parachuted into occupied territory.
Although either of those would be a jolly sight more interesting.
However briefly.
She knocked again. "Cissy! Have you drowned?"
The door jerked open. About time died on Sam's lips as she took in Cicely Oswell's red-rimmed, swollen eyes. "What on earth's the matter?" she asked instead.
"Nothing," her billet-mate said shortly, trying to push past into the hall.
"Rubbish," Sam said robustly. She took Cicely's arm to stop her, but let go at the other woman's cry of pain. "What is it? Did you scald yourself? Let me see." Ignoring Cicely's protests, she pushed up the sleeve of the other woman's dressing gown. "I did do First Aid with the MTC and scalds can be —"
But it was not a burn she saw on Cicely's arm, but rather five purpling bruises, four in a row and one off-set, exactly like …
Four fingers and a thumb.
"Cissy!" Sam exclaimed. "Who on earth did this?"
Cicely yanked her arm free. "I don't know!" she wailed, and, bursting into tears, fled to her room.
Sam followed in haste. I'll be late, but bother it, she thought. If the war can't go on without me, then it can jolly well wait five minutes.
Cicely had flung herself down on her bed, face buried in the pillow, sobbing convulsively. Sam closed the door behind them and sat down next to her friend. "I say, Cissy, it'll be alright," she said, patting a heaving shoulder. "But you have to tell me what's going on, or I can't help."
Between sobs and gasps, the story came out: the argument with her beau, William, at The Cat's Pyjamas and William flinging off home, leaving Cicely at the bar; Cicely's piqued decision to finish her drink alone; the young soldier on leave who had struck up a conversation with her, bought her a second drink, and offered to see her home; and then waking in an alley she didn't recognise, alone and aching from injuries she had no recollection of receiving.
"Oh, Cissy," Sam said, hugging her. "Did you - do you think he -"
Cicely nodded against Sam's shoulders. "My kn-kn-knickers," she sobbed. "On the gr-gr-ground. And I hurt! It hurts, it hurts!"
Sam set her teeth. If I get my hands on that absolute, utter cad, she thought, a bin lid will be the least of it. "We must get you to a doctor," she said. "And then you must tell the police."
"No! No!" Cicely wailed. "I can't - I can't! They'll know!"
"Of course they'll know," Sam said reasonably. "That's the point of telling them. Then they can arrest this rotter and put him in jail where he belongs."
"I can't bear it, I can't!" Cicely protested. "They - they - all those men! Knowing! Looking at me and thinking!"
"Look, you must be seen by a doctor at the very least," Sam said. "What about a woman doctor? There's one in Clive Vale. Dr Blackwell. Would you like me to call her? I can cycle down to the phone box, I won't be long."
It took some little while of cajoling, persuading, and insisting, but Cicely was finally induced to accept the necessity of medical attention. Sam was reluctant to leave her, but there was nothing for it. With promises to be back in mere moments, you won't have time to know I'm gone, she dressed hastily and raced downstairs to her bicycle.
The exchange connected her to Dr Blackwell's surgery, but the telephone rang and rang without answer. Blimey, Sam thought, of course. I forgot how early it is!
Or, in regards to her own employment, how late.
She hung up, then put in more pennies and dialed Beverly Lodge, explaining when she got through that she wasn't able to work today as she had a sick friend. The tone of the response promised trouble tomorrow, but there was no help for it. Can't leave Cissy in the lurch. Next she tried the operator again, asking this time for Dr Blackwell's home.
Fortunately, the doctor had the phone on, and after a few rings a gruff female voice said: "Yes?"
"Dr Blackwell, I'm sorry it's so early, but my friend needs a doctor?"
"Address?"
Sam gave it, and there was a pause.
"Don't you have someone closer?" Dr Blackwell asked at last.
"She needs a - a woman doctor," Sam said. "Please, Dr Blackwell. I think she's quite hurt."
Dr Blackwell said a word Sam was quite sure she'd never heard a woman use. "Has she been trying to get rid of a child?"
"No," Sam said. "No, it's - she was - there was a man."
"Right," Dr Blackwell said. "Isn't there always? Give me the address again. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Feeling reassured, Sam hung up. She considered calling the station, even if Cicely didn't want her too. Surely once she talks to Mr Milner she'll see she can trust him enough to tell him what happened!
No. Better to wait until she could talk Cicely into it.
She cycled back to the house as quickly as she could and hurried upstairs, tapping on Cicely's door. "Cissy? The doctor's on her way."
Silence.
Sam tapped again, louder. "Cissy? Are you there? Cissy?"
Still getting no answer, she tried the handle, and when it turned, she pushed the door open. The bed was empty, and then she saw that Cicely was standing by the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe that Mrs Henderson had left in what had been a dressing room before she started letting rooms to service-women. But her face looks so odd …
And her feet aren't touching the floor.
From a long way away, Sam heard her own voice crying out for help as she rushed forward to throw her arms around her friend's waist and lift her up. She tried to reach up and pull loose the belt around Cicely's neck but she couldn't support the other woman's weight with only one arm. Help, help, somebody, help, somebody, somebody …
It was an age, it was seconds, before running footsteps thundered down the hall. There was a hubbub of raised voices from the doorway. Someone screamed.
Stop being so plurry useless, Sam thought, and help me!
"Out of the way,"a young woman ordered crisply. "I said move! Mrs Henderson, call the ambulance, Anne, get scissors or a knife or something. Now!"
Another set of arms joined Sam's around Cicely's waist. She turned her head to see Milicent Lovell, who she knew only vaguely as a new resident doing something for the WAF, helping her with Cicely's weight.
"I've got scissors," Anne panted from the doorway.
"Cut that belt," Sam said. "There's a chair by the desk."
A scraping noise told her Anne was dragging the chair over. A moment's silence, and then Anne quavered: "It won't cut. It won't cut!"
"Anne," Millie said very calmly, "stop mucking about and cut the bally noose!"
Her voice cracked like a whip and would have done credit to a sergeant major. Anne gave a gulp, and a second later Sam felt Cicely's weight grow heavier.
"Lay her down," Millie said tersely. Between them, they managed to stretch Cicely out on the floor. Sam felt her wrist.
"She's alive!" she said.
Millie held her hand in front of Cicely's mouth, frowning, and then sucked in air as if preparing to dive deep and, stooping, put her mouth over Cicely's and blew out hard.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked. "Shouldn't we put her on her front?"
"Works better," Millie said shortly, and took another deep breath, repeating the process.
"Do please wake up, Cissy," Sam said, rubbing her friend's hand. "Please."
More voices in the hall, and then someone else knelt beside Sam. She glanced sideways to see an older woman, spare and bony, iron-grey hair in a mannish cut, dressed incongruously in trousers, a jacket, and what appeared to be a man's pyjama top and carrying a black bag.
"I'm a doctor," the woman said. "What happened?" She leaned over to look at Cicely's neck. "Never mind. Keep going, girl."
"Dr Blackwell!" Sam said.
"Yep," Dr Blackwell said. "You called me?" She snapped open her bag and drew out a small vial.
"Yes," Sam said. "But when I came back, I found her …" Cicely's face as it had appeared when she opened the door flashed before her.
"Ambulance coming?"
"Mrs Henderson has gone to call," Sam said.
Dr Blackwell nodded, and leaned forward, saying to Millie: "Hold up."
Millie leaned back and Dr Blackwell uncorked the bottle and held it near Cicely's nose.
There was a moment's silence as they watched, holding their own breath.
Then Cicely twitched, and gasped, and began to breathe.
.
.
.
A/N: Women made up around 20% of all medical professionals in England during the war, skewed toward general practice. The name of the doctor in this story is a tribute to Dr Elizabeth Blackwell, the first woman to have her name entered in the British General Medical Council's medical register in 1859, who died in Hastings in 1910.
Although it was not taught as standard until the 1950s, manual respiration ( 'rescue breathing') was one of many resuscitation techniques known in the 1940s - indeed, it had been used as early as the 18th century. The method considered to be standard prior to the 1950s, and therefore the one Sam would have learned in the MTC, was the Holger Nielsen method, where the patient is placed face down. Google can furnish you with some fairly amusing illustrations.