Chapter 18 Chapter Seventeen

But the most important activity place for junior interns is still in the cleaning room.There has been talk of installing automatic bedpan and bottle cleaners, but that's not true.At least for now, they have to repeat what the previous people did.On the day she got counted twice for running around, Briony found herself on extra duty in the cleaning room.Perhaps something was wrong with the unwritten roster? But she doubted that explanation.She closed the door behind her and tied the heavy rubber apron around her waist.For Briony, the trick to the job, or rather the only way she could stand it, was to close her eyes, hold her breath, and turn her head away.Then rinse with carbolic acid solution.If she forgot to check that the potty handle was clean and dry, the head nurse would give her more trouble.

At dusk, she finished this task and went straight to the nearly empty ward.There she had to tidy up the lockers, empty the ashtrays, and collect the day's papers.She glanced involuntarily at the folded Sunday Illustrated.Every day she keeps track of current events in bits and pieces.She simply didn't have time to sit down and read a whole newspaper at a leisurely pace.She learned that the Maginot Line had been breached, that Rotterdam had been bombed, that the Dutch army had surrendered, and that the night before some girls had been talking about the impending fall of Belgium.The battle situation is not good, but there will always be a turning point.At this moment, a sentence in the newspaper intended to comfort the public caught her attention.It doesn't matter what it says, what matters is the hidden meaning behind the innocuous words.British troops in northern France are "making a strategic retreat to previously prepared camps."Even she—who knows nothing about military tactics or journalistic jargon—sees the true meaning of the euphemism "retreat."Maybe she was the last person in this hospital who knew exactly what was going on.The increasingly empty wards and the large quantities of supplies brought in in large quantities, she used to think that they were just routine preparations for war.It seemed that she was too focused on her trivial troubles.Now it dawned on her how the unrelated news pieces could be connected, what everyone knew for sure, and what the hospital authorities were planning.The Germans had already reached the English Channel, and the British army was in a very difficult situation.The fighting in France was a mess, though no one could tell how bad it was.She felt herself drowning in foreboding and wordless dread of the future.

Just then, on the day the last patients were escorted home from the ward, she received a letter from her father.In the letter, my father first sent a brief greeting, and then asked her about her homework and physical condition as a matter of routine. Then he told her the news that he had heard from his colleagues and confirmed by his family: Paul Marshall and Laura Kun West will wed next Saturday at Holy Trinity Church, Clapham Common.As for why he thought she would be interested in the news, he didn't say a word, and he didn't comment on the matter itself.At the end of the letter, he just scribbled "Love you as always".

Throughout the morning, she was busy thinking about the news.She hadn't seen Laura since that summer, so in her mind, the figure standing in front of the altar was just a frail fifteen-year-old girl.At the moment she was helping to pack a departing patient from Lambeth - an elderly woman - and trying to concentrate on listening to her babble.She had a broken toe, and Ben was on seven days of the twenty days she had been promised bed rest.Briony helped her into a wheelchair and a handyman wheeled her away.In the cleaning room, Briony pondered.Laura was twenty and Marshall would be twenty-nine.There is nothing surprising about this.To her shock, news of the marriage was confirmed.Briony and this matter are not just "related".She made it all happen.

From morning to dusk, in and out of wards, up and down the corridors, Briony felt the familiar guilt pursue her with new, tearing power.She scrubbed empty lockers, helped others wash bed frames with carbolic solution, swept and polished floors, and hurried to the pharmacy and hospital social workers twice as fast (without daring to actually run, of course). ), in the men's ward with another intern medicated and bandaged their scabies, replacing Fiona who had to go to the dentist.On such a beautiful first day in May, she was sweating under the wraps of her stiff uniform.She doesn't want anything, just work, work, take a shower after get off work, sleep, wake up and start the next day's work.But she knew it was useless.No matter how much inferior and menial work she does, no matter how hard and brilliant she does, no matter how much she willingly gives up—whether it is the interpretation and inspiration she gets in individual tutoring, or the happy time on the college lawn— She can't make up for the damage she's done.It can never be made up.She is unforgiving.

For the first time in many years, she wanted to talk to her father.For a long time, she took his indifference for granted and never expected to get anything from him.She wondered if he'd taken the trouble to send such a detailed letter this time to imply that he already knew the truth.After afternoon tea, she didn't have much time for herself, so she hurried to the telephone booth at the exit of the hospital near Westminster Bridge, trying to call her father who was at work.The switchboard picked up a nasal voice that made her feel hopeful, and then the phone was disconnected, and she had to start all over again.Same situation again.On the third try, just as a voice sounded - connecting you - it crashed again.

All the coins were spent, and it was time for her to go back to work in the hospital.Outside the phone booth, she paused and looked up at the mountains of clouds piling up against the pale blue sky.The river rolls the spring tide and rushes to the sea in the surging blue and green.Big Ben always looks crumbling under a restless sky.Despite the exhaust fumes from the cars, fresh plants and grass blades freshly cut from the hospital garden or the small trees by the river made a fresh smell waft around.The warm lights are shining, but there is still a refreshing coolness in the air.How many days had she not seen such a moving scene? It might have been many weeks.She stayed in the house for too long, and what she inhaled and exhaled all day long was the smell of disinfectant.time to go.She was just starting out when two young interns at the Milbank Military Hospital passed her and gave her a friendly, big smile.She instinctively lowered her head, and then regretted that she should at least meet their gazes openly.They walked across the bridge, only paying attention to the two of them talking, and didn't care about the others.One of them made a bouncing motion, as if imitating taking something from a high shelf.His companion was amused by him and laughed.On the way they stopped to admire a gunboat passing under the bridge.She couldn't help thinking how free and alive the doctors of the Royal Army Medical Corps were, and how she wished she had answered their smile just now.That was the other side of herself that she had completely forgotten.She is already late.She had to run despite the pinching of the shoes.Here, on the dirty, uncarbohydrated sidewalk, Sister Drummond's decree has no effect.There was no hemorrhage or fire, but there was a surprising pleasure of stretching the whole body and a short taste of freedom.All this pushed her to run, wearing a heavy rubber apron, and ran to the door of the hospital.

At this moment, a burst of exhausting waiting enveloped the entire hospital.Only the jaundiced sailors remained.They had a strange fascination for the nurses, who talked about them now and then with interest.These stubborn little soldiers sat up on the bed and sewed socks. They insisted on washing their underwear and handkerchiefs by hand. After washing, they hung them on the temporary clothesline pulled along the radiator.Patients who are still bedridden would rather come by themselves than ask a nurse to bring a bedpan.It is said that these capable sailors liked to keep the wards in order themselves, and also took over from the nurses to sweep the floor and carry those heavy mops for them.Men and girls who like doing housework so much have never been seen before.No wonder Fiona said she must marry someone who had trained in the Royal Navy.

For unknown reasons, the interns had half a day off from studying, but they still had to wear their uniforms.After lunch, Briony and Fiona crossed the river together, walked past the Houses of Parliament and into St James's Park.They strolled slowly around the lake, bought a cup of tea at a small stall, rented deck chairs, and listened to the "Salvation Army" elderly band play Elgar tunes adapted for brass band.In Mayday, before the war in France was deeply understood, and before September was bombed, although London was filled with signs of war, it did not have the slightest war mentality.The uniforms and posters reminding people to be vigilant of the fifth column are what caught the eye. Two large air-raid shelters have been dug on the grass in the park.Bureaucracy is rampant everywhere.A man in a hat and armbands came over and told Fiona to look at her gas mask - it was covered by her cloak.Other than that, everything was peaceful and serene.The anxiety that had been stirring the country over the situation in France was dissolved in the afternoon sun.What is dead is no longer in sight, and what is not in sight is assumed to be alive.Everything is as usual, like a dream.The stroller slid across the path, the canopy down to block out the harsh sun.The baby with fair skin and soft skull opened his eyes wide, staring at the novel world outside him for the first time in a daze.Children who seemed to have just escaped from life as refugees ran up and down the grass, laughing and shouting.The band was exhausted from the battle with the music.A deck chair still costs twopence.Who would have thought that a military tragedy was taking place just a hundred miles away.

Briony still had her own thoughts on her mind.Perhaps London would be gassed, or ravaged by German paratroopers, supported by a fifth column, rampaging the ground, and Lola might not have time for the wedding at all.Briony once heard an omniscient handyman say that nothing could stop the German invasion.They have new tactics and we don't have them. They have modern equipment and we don't have them. It's a lot of fun to put it bluntly.Generals should really read Liddell Hart, or stop by the hospital handyman's cabin at tea-time and listen to him. Beside her, Fiona babbled on and on about her favorite little brother and his anecdotes over meals.Briony pretended to be listening, but she was thinking of Robbie.If he had been fighting in France, he might well have been captured.Or worse.How could Cecilia bear this kind of news? Thinking of this, the music suddenly became cheerful, and with a burst of unaccompanied dissonance rising to a hoarse crescendo, she clung to the wood of the deck chair tightly. Armrest, eyes closed.If Robbie really has troubles, if Robbie and Cecilia can never be reunited... The pain in her heart and the turmoil of the war always seem to be irrelevant, and they are things in two different worlds.But now that she understood how they were connected, she finally understood how this war would aggravate her guilt.The only way to get rid of this guilt, she thought, was if the past never happened.If he never comes back... How she wants to have the same past as others, to be another person, just like the passionate Fiona, whose white and flawless life unfolds in front of her, and her warm and happy big Families, even kittens and dogs have Latin names.Their residence is also a meeting place for Chelsea's literary and artistic celebrities.For her, she just needs to keep walking along the paved road of life, waiting to meet everything that appears on the road.But Briony, what about her life? She was alone in a room with no door to get in or out.

"Briony, are you all right?" "What? Oh, yes, I'm fine. I'm fine, thanks." "I don't believe you. Shall I get you a glass of water?" As the audience applauded more and more—no one seemed to care how badly the band was playing—Brioni followed Fiona across the lawn, past the musicians and a man in a brown coat renting a deck chair. The man walked into the small coffee house in the woodland.The Salvation Army band began singing "Goodbye, Blackbird."They played this piece much more freely.The people on the deck chairs also joined in, and some clapped their hands in time with the rhythm.This form of collective singing always has a somewhat forced nature-when the pitch rises and the mood is high, the eyes of strangers meet unexpectedly.Briony was not used to this, and she resented it.Nevertheless, her emotions were mobilized.When Fiona came back with a teacup of water, the band was playing a series of old hits, beginning with "Long Road to Tipperary".The two of them started talking about work.Fiona pulls Briony along for a bit of tongue-in-cheek fun—what makes them happy and what irritates them.They talked about Sister Drummond, and Fiona picked up her voice.This high-spirited head nurse really looks like a high-ranking consultant physician who thinks he is great but is cold.They remembered the eccentricities of the different patients, and they grumbled together.Fiona resented not being allowed to leave things on the windowsill, and Briony hated the eleven o'clock lights-out rule.But while they were complaining, they were in a good mood, even though they were unnaturally happy.They giggled so hard that everyone turned their heads, and they put their hands on their lips and made exaggerated movements to signal them to keep their voices down.But none of these gestures were particularly serious, and most of them just smiled indulgently at them from the recliners.Because they were nurses, and nurses in wartime, their attire—purple and white corsets, dark blue cloaks and spotless hats—made them as irreproachable and inviolable as nuns.Sensing their immunity, the girls became even more reckless, laughing and taunting others.Wow, Fiona turns out to be a skilled impersonator, and of the joy she brings Briony appreciates her few brutal touches.Fiona could reproduce the Cockney accent of Lambeth, and relentlessly and exaggerately imitate the ignorance of certain patients and their pleading and grunting in pain. "That's my stuff, nurse. I keep misplacing it. My mom used to do that too. Is the baby really coming out of the ass, nurse? Because I don't know if mine fits. It's like... ...AH! Mine keeps getting stuck. I have six kids and I left one of them on the bus once, on the 88 from Braxton. Must be on the seat Got it. Never saw it again, Nurse. Bad luck. I was. The balls of my eyes were crying." When they walked back towards Parliament Square, Briony was still dizzy and her knees were weak from laughing so hard.She herself was also very surprised, how could her mood change so quickly.Her worry did not disappear, but quietly retreated into a hidden corner.Laughing all afternoon, all my emotions have been vented for a while, and now I have no energy at all.They walked across Westminster Bridge arm in arm.The tide has receded, and in the strong light, on the muddy river bank, thousands of vermicomposts cast speckled shadows, shining with purple luster.As the pair turned right onto Lambeth Palace Road, they saw a line of military trucks parked outside the hospital gates.Thinking that they had to unpack and stack the munitions again, the two girls murmured, but they were in a good mood.