Call Nurse Jenny (2 page)

But Louise had looked up from sorting bunting to regard her closely, comparison to screen idols forgotten. ‘You haven’t got a
thing
about my brother, have you?’

‘No.’ Jenny had also put aside Katharine Hepburn, her face warm before the younger girl’s shrewd smile. Louise never smirked or grinned. She smiled, as she had then, in a lofty way, the way her mother did, making the recipient want to crawl under a stone.

‘I think you have. I think you fancy him.’

‘No, I don’t.’

One couldn’t go on denying hotly. She could only appeal to Louise to say nothing to Matthew of what she’d after all merely surmised.

Now she stared in the mirror, wanting so much to believe Louise’s unintentional flattery, but the green eyes beneath the flaming hair merely gazed back in disparagement. Beautiful? Striking? What man, and by what man she knew she meant Matthew, would ever throw himself at
her
feet?

Jenny smiled grimly at her reflection, and turning from its cruelty, she snatched up her handbag from the bed and hurried downstairs to kiss her mother before leaving the house.

She found her on hands and knees in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbows, one plump arm wearily describing soapy circles on the linoleum with a scrubbing brush. Disbelief sharpened Jenny’s tone.

‘Good God, Mumsy, what on earth are you doing?’

The soft rounded face looked up, downy cheeks flushed from her task, apologetic hazel eyes meeting her daughter’s. To Jenny, gazing in horror, she looked much older than her fifty-two years as with a tremulous sigh she sank back on to her ankles. ‘The floor looked a bit smeary, dear. I …’

‘But I washed it all over this morning, Mumsy, before I left for work.’

Whatever possessed her mother? She was forever pottering around the house, doing things that never needed to be done, often after Jenny herself had done them. It made a mockery of all the help she gave.

‘I just thought a small wipe-over.’

‘With soap and scrubbing brush?’ It was hard to mask irritation, only too aware of what lay behind all this. ‘How can I go out while you’re tiring yourself out completely, doing things like this?’ It was a way to keep her here, and if she wasn’t careful, it would.

‘Leave it, Mumsy. Go and rest.’

Mrs Ross drew the back of a wet hand limply across her brow. ‘I do really feel I must. I’m so hot.’

‘I don’t wonder.’ Jenny moderated her tone, understanding replacing annoyance. Two years was far too short a span to expect her mother to get over losing Daddy. She herself hadn’t yet quite got over it. But she had a job to go to, lots of diversion, friends in the evenings. Mummy had nothing. The woman next door was as deaf as a post. The young couple on the other side had their parents, brothers and sisters, a host of friends, all of them visiting and in turn to be visited, too absorbed in their own pursuits to bother with a woman who tended to wrap herself in her self-imposed shroud of isolation. As for those in their big new houses lining the park, they with their bridge parties and their bowling and tennis and their theatres, to them those in the smaller houses were a world away, seldom encountered for long enough to exchange a word or two. Mumsy was a lonely woman. It was cruel to go off and desert her right now, and Jenny would quite readily have given up her evening to keep her company in normal circumstances, but tonight Matthew was drawing her as a lodestone attracts iron.

Relieving her mother of the scrubbing brush, Jenny tipped the pail of suds down the sink. ‘Go and sit in the back garden, Mumsy. Take a book with you,’ she ordered, feeling a pang of sorrow at the feeble ploy to keep her here. ‘It’s still lovely and sunny by the back door.’

Installed in a deckchair in front of the small border of bright annuals which Jenny herself had planted, Mrs Ross gazed up at her. ‘You won’t be too late home, will you, dear?’

‘No, Mumsy, I won’t.’

She was rarely late home – usually eleven at the latest, knowing her mother’s dread of being alone, but the regularity of the query irked a little.

‘I wish you didn’t have to go out, dear.’

‘I always go out on Friday night.’

‘I suppose you’ll be out tomorrow as well.’

‘Just swimming, that’s all. I’ll have the rest of the weekend with you.’

Mrs Ross heaved a sigh that said how quickly the weekend would go before she must spend the coming week on her own until Jenny came home of an evening. But before the matter could develop further, Jenny dropped a hasty kiss on the flaccid cheek and went back into the kitchen to mop up the suds on the floor.

It hardly seemed worth going out now. Matthew would already be there. What if he’d taken it into his head to go off somewhere else? She’d have no idea where, and without him, the dance would go down for her like a soggy bun.

She had to at least try. Fraught with anxiety she called goodbye to her mother and hurried off. Turning into Cambridge Heath Road, she caught her breath in a huge gulp of relief. Jean Summerfield was just in front of her, sauntering along as though she had all the time in the world to spare. Breaking into a run, Jenny caught her up.

‘Gosh, am I glad to see you,’ she burst out, falling into step, already flushed from her short spurt on this hot evening. ‘I did think I was going to be late. Matthew’s already left. You know what he’s like. He could go off anywhere without waiting for us.’

‘Oh, he’ll wait for me.’

Jean was a willowy brunette. Looking cool as a cucumber, she turned an extremely pretty oval face to Jenny, her voice a purr of self-assurance. She’d been going out with Matthew for nearly two months, a long time for any girl where he was concerned.

Jenny wasn’t so sure he’d wait. He might be going out with Jean but he’d been seen on two occasions with that blonde Middleton girl from St Anne’s Close, a fact Jean shrugged off with affected nonchalance. Jenny reflected that had she been treated like that, she would have given Matthew his marching orders long ago no matter how it broke her heart. Trouble was, Matthew’s dreamy brown eyes hardly ever strayed in her direction, not in
that way
, so there’d never be a chance of her putting that valiant promise to the test.

‘Marie Middleton told me yesterday she’d be there,’ she remarked, more from the need to move Jean along faster than from any sort of spite, but Jean flicked her a look saturated with venom.

‘For your information, she’s not his sort. He doesn’t care for blondes. Or
redheads
for that matter, if you want to know.’

The dig wasn’t lost on Jenny and she felt ruffled. She was no competition. ‘I just happened to see him eyeing her at the dance last week, that’s all.’

She found herself rewarded by another glare, the small pretty face with its retroussé nose and bright red lips waspish. ‘You keep your eyes to yourself. Dennis Cox is your partner. Anyway, Matthew told me he thinks I’m the tops. So there!’

Even so, her stride had quickened, past the Council offices, past the Bethnal Green Children’s Museum set back from the road, on their right a train travelling the viaduct above the small shabby shops, filling the air with smoke and a sooty smell. They covered the half-mile to their destination far more quickly than Jenny ever guessed a small-built girl could, and she had to hurry to keep up with Jean, who was rattled.

Finally reaching St John’s church at the Salmon and Ball crossroads, they were both hot, Jean’s cheeks glowing prettily, Jenny’s a fiery flush. In the hall, the pianist, drummer and saxophonist on the tiny stage, with its brown curtains hanging limp and dusty with East End smoke, were still sorting out their arrangements. The hall, with its faded religious prints around the walls and its small grimy windows, echoed with the garbled conversation of young people perched on splintery bentwood chairs waiting for the dance to start, girls in bright dresses, boys with hair slicked back with Brylcreem, their suits well pressed, jackets already hanging on chairbacks to reveal well-ironed white shirts.

Early arrivals had already commandeered the few folding tables on which to put their soft drinks and crisps. Jenny’s gaze flicked anxiously to each one, knowing that if Matthew was still here, he would certainly have got himself a table. He had, of course – one of the better tables at the far end of the hall, near the band.

Sharing the table were Freddy Perry and Eileen Wilcox, who only had eyes for each other these days, and Dennis Cox. The latecomers were immediately spotted by Matthew who was instantly up from his seat, beckoning, his handsome face alive with welcome as they came over, his lips parting in a wide smile that revealed even white teeth.

‘Thought you two would never arrive.’ It was a full-toned voice that reflected a zest for life and the natural impatience of a soul seldom in need of rest. ‘We got our drinks before it got busy.’ He eyed the bar at the far end with its two ladies serving a growing queue. ‘What would you like?’

Jean dropped into the seat he’d vacated, very sure of herself. ‘God, it’s hot! A nice long cool lemonade, darling, large as they can make it.’

Jenny hesitated, wondering if she should offer to pay for herself or not. She heard him chuckle wickedly.

‘Come on, Jenny, make up your mind.’

His well-spoken accent made the playful quip sound flippant. Those living in such as Victoria Park Road tended not to have the accents of the East End. Matthew had once said that his mother had been a lady’s maid before she’d married. Jenny supposed that the mannerisms of her then upper-class employers must have rubbed off on her, though to her mind Mrs Ward boasted just too many airs and graces. Not that it bothered Jenny. She was well spoken too, her family as good as any. And all her friends spoke very much the same, so there was really nothing for his mother to be snobbish about. Thank God Matthew wasn’t. He even joked about it, apparently to his mother’s face as well as behind her back. Still, the quip took Jenny a little off guard.

Her already bright flush deepened. ‘Can I have lemonade too?’ Her thin enquiry annoyed her. His ringing laugh made her wince.

‘What makes you think you can’t?’

It wasn’t his fault. She was an idiot. It was being so close to those velvet-brown eyes. Flustered, she hurriedly sat down next to Dennis Cox.

Dennis immediately began to monopolise her with an account of his new job. Coming straight from college armed with diplomas and bags of hope, he had landed himself a position in a firm of London solicitors. Listening to him, Jenny could well imagine him in years to come, bustling from court to court, bundles of legal briefs under his arm, probably having grown much plumper than he was now.

He was still expounding on his future when Matthew returned with two glasses of lemonade for the girls and two of ginger beer for himself and Dennis. Jenny smirked covertly. She’d seen the drill before. He probably had a tiny flask of whisky in the inside pocket of his jacket now hanging over the chairback. The moment the ginger beer was gone, empty glasses would be surreptitiously replenished by the contents of that flask, the same colour as the soft drink. Lots of the boys did it, not enough to get drunk on, but enough to be lively. If St John’s vicar were to know, he would have a fit.

Matthew was lifting a mocking eyebrow at Dennis. ‘Why don’t you give the mouth a rest, Cox, and do some work for your living? There’s two more drinks on the counter, and some crisps. Go and get them for us, eh?’

Dennis looked affronted. ‘See here – I’ve been sweltering all day in the City.’ The amiable laugh at his protest provoked even more indignation from him. ‘All right for some. All you do is drive about in your dad’s van all day. So what happened to that smashing job you were offered by Marconi’s when you left college last year? I thought you were going to be big in radio communications or something.’

If he had hoped to rattle his opponent, he was disappointed. ‘Turned it down in the end, old man. Dad’s shop takes priority. His chest plays him up sometimes and there’s only him to run it. He’s not getting any younger.’

‘And of course it’ll be yours one day, won’t it?’

The remark had an insinuating ring to it and although Matthew’s easy grin did not alter, the dark eyes adopted a fractionally harsher glow. ‘I don’t need to prove I’ve more brains than you by sweating in some office.’

‘You’re just plain lazy,’ Dennis sneered.

‘I probably am.’ The good humour had returned. ‘Come on, Cox, get cracking. It’s on the counter, all paid for.’

Slipping into a spare seat beside Jean, he left the peevish Dennis no option but to do as ordered. Eileen and Freddy, lost in each other, hadn’t caught the small note of dissension, their hands hidden under the table.

Matthew grinned. ‘Now then, you two. You’re in company, remember? There’s a time and place for everything, you know.’ As their hands came back into sight, the pair looking sheepish, he turned his gaze on Jenny.

‘You look nice tonight, Jenny. Blue suits that hair of yours.’ The impish grin seemed to her to belie the compliment.

‘You mean ginger?’ she corrected, but was halted by the unexpected change in his expression.

‘Some girls would give their eye teeth for that colour,’ he said slowly, his scrutiny of her so deep and personal that she felt her cheeks flush and her heart give a leap. But Jean’s brittle voice cut in.

‘Matthew, I’m still waiting for my lemonade.’

The glass was within arm’s reach, but he must have realised it was the only way she could get his attention at this moment for as he pushed the glass towards her, he treated her to a low ‘mee-ow’. Jenny wanted to laugh out loud as Jean tossed her short dark curls in pique, a pout spoiling her pretty face. It was good to know she wasn’t alone in getting the raw edge of Matthew’s sometimes far too caustic wit.

When Dennis returned with the remaining refreshments, vague hostilities faded. The hall was growing uncomfortably hotter by the minute with so few windows capable of being opened. The band was still warming up, sheet music was being turned, scales on the sax being tentatively tested, the drums tapped at intervals. Dennis turned his attention to studying his already half-drunk ginger beer, eager for the small tot of whisky to liven it up.