Home for Christmas (30 page)

It was late by the time Lydia got home. The house was dark and cool and there was no sign of her father or of the servants.

She went from one room to another, then down into the kitchen. Nobody was there, not even Mrs Gander the housekeeper who rarely took a day off if she could possibly avoid it. Mrs Gander regarded the house in Kensington as her personal domain. She controlled everything in it, and woe betide anyone who tried to alter her routine or carry out a task in a way that was contrary to her methods.

Lydia considered going to bed, but didn’t feel tired enough; besides, if she was going to apply for a posting with the army, she needed to swot up on battlefield injuries; her father was sure to have a book on that.

Because of the bookshelves lining the walls, the library was the darkest room in the house. There was something comforting about the smell of musty paper and dried ink.

Rather than ignite the wall-mounted gaslights with their swan necks and tulip-shaped shades, she opened the drawer, found a box of Vestas and lit the oil lamp her father kept on the table.

Never had she found reading medical books quite so chilling, given her reasons for doing so. However, it was a means to an end and she forced herself to concentrate on the details, determined to retain everything she learned.

It was because of this enforced concentration that she hardly noticed the regular ticking of the green onyx clock on the mantelpiece. Whereas other clocks ticked time away, this one was a noisy beast, clicking with each motion of the pendulum.

She jerked up her head when it finally struck twelve – midnight.

She’d heard no sound of the front door opening, no sound either of her father’s swift, mannish footsteps. It surprised her that he stayed out late, though she didn’t begrudge him his love of the theatre and what was to stop him from indulging in dinner afterwards?

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight in a more booming tone than the mantel clock. Her eyelids were getting heavy, so she closed the book and rubbed her eyes back into wakefulness before replacing it on the bookshelf.

She opened the library door at the same time as the front door was opened, feeling the draught coming in from outside. The sonorous voice of her father making some pithy comment preceded that of laughter. There was no mistaking it; the laughter was that of a woman.

Lydia stood at the library door. She heard them talking and laughing as they removed and hung up their coats. Her father’s lady friend was in the house.

It was silly to feel so hostile, and for the thought to register that he had no business bringing a woman into the house, not this house, not the house he had shared with her mother. Even when she reminded herself that he was old enough to choose whom he wished to bring home, she couldn’t help herself.

As if waking from sleep, she left the library and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Her father looked amazed.

‘Lydia! What are you doing here?’

Lydia heard him but couldn’t take her eyes off the red-haired woman who accompanied him. Of mature years, her clothes were flamboyant but of good quality, purple and edged with black velvet. Dark-lashed eyes shone from a handsome face.

Before she could answer, the bright eyes met hers head on.

‘Eric, my dear man. This must be your lovely daughter. Do introduce us.’

A pink flush coloured his handsome features. His mouth hung open before he stammered an answer.

‘Ah! Well … Yes … This is my dear friend … Mrs Mallory … Mrs Kate Mallory.’

The two women, daughter and lover, exchanged polite nods.

Eric Miller regained his composure. ‘I’m sorry. Did we disturb you, my dear? I wasn’t expecting you home …’

Lydia knew without him saying so that Mrs Mallory was an actress; for a middle-aged woman, she was too beautiful, too dramatic in her looks and graceful movements to be anything else.

‘No. I wanted to speak to you. Robert’s off to France. I want to go too. I wanted to tell you, and also to ask your advice.’

His forehead, handsome, wide and strong, furrowed. ‘You want to go?’

‘Yes. I think it’s what I should do. Even if I don’t get the opportunity to see him, I’ll be closer, or at least it will seem that way.’

‘Lydia, I’m not sure it’s a very good idea. Queen Alexandra’s …’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s what I wish to talk to you about.’ She glanced from her father to the woman with him. ‘Under the circumstances, I think it best we speak in private.’

He looked peeved by her suggestion. ‘I’m quite happy for Kate to hear anything you have to say.’

‘She knows everything about you?’

‘Of course!’ He sounded agitated.

‘They may not accept me because you’re German, the enemy. I need to seek another option. I’m sure there must be one,’ she said.

Her father and Mrs Mallory – Kate – exchanged looks that said everything and said nothing.

‘She’s right, Eric,’ said Kate, her rich voice soft but extremely expressive. ‘They are bound to be biased and the longer the war goes on, the worse it is likely to get. I’ve seen bunting hanging out of office windows in the city, men betting on which of them will kill their German first. I saw it in Paris and now I’m seeing it here. On enrolment, Lydia will have to give her name and the names of her parents. It’s best nobody knows. It’s best she stays here.’

Eric Miller’s expression was grave. ‘That is what I would wish,’ he said softly, looking directly at his daughter. ‘I would prefer you to stay, Lydia. Even though the Lutheran governors have advised the nurses of German nationality to return, they are insistent on keeping the hospital open. You will be needed there as much as on any battlefield.’

Lydia shook her head vehemently. ‘I know that, Father. Robert will be in France. I have to go there.’

He looked away, rubbing his forehead with two fingers as though trying to remove a blemish of soot from his brow. It was something he always did when perturbed – as he certainly was now.

The red-headed woman swayed back and forth on her heels, looking at Eric as though she could read his thoughts.

‘Well. It’s getting late. Thank you for supper, Eric. I think it’s time I left.’

‘No. Kate. Please stay for a nightcap. Just to warm you before you set off home. In fact the cab is still waiting outside,’ he added, this comment directed at Lydia. ‘Isn’t that right, Kate?’

Mrs Mallory raised her eyebrows and looked at him. Lydia saw the laughter in the woman’s eyes and knew immediately there had been other plans; a minute or two might very well have become an hour. The ire inside tightened somewhere just behind her stomach muscles. She hadn’t exactly taken a dislike to Mrs Kate Mallory, but she had hoped to speak to her father in depth.

Mrs Mallory herself made the decision.

‘Actually, Eric, I think I should be going. I wouldn’t want to keep the cab waiting. Poor man. He probably wants to get home to his wife and family.’

‘What about your family, Mrs Mallory? I expect they might be waiting up for you too,’ said Lydia smiling her sweetest smile simply because she wanted her to leave as quickly as possible.

‘Oh, I have no family, my dear,’ replied Mrs Mallory, her voice deep and gravelly as though she smoked a great deal. ‘I’m an actress. Many of us actresses prefer to be known as Mrs even though we’ve never made it to the altar. Still, there’s always a first time, isn’t there Eric?’

Lydia’s father looked down at his feet, muttering a string of unrelated ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’.

Mrs Kate Mallory looked from one to the other. ‘I can see you need to discuss this situation. I will say goodnight, Miss Lydia. Goodnight, Eric.’

She cupped his jaw in a lilac-gloved hand and kissed his cheek.

The sound of the door closing echoed around the hallway. It was a few minutes before either of them spoke.

Eventually, Lydia’s father broke the silence. ‘Kate and I have been friends for some time.’

‘Will you marry her?’

He shuffled a bit from one foot to the other while fingering the brim of his hat.

‘Not at this moment, but who knows how things might change. We’re both getting older.’

Lydia saw his worried frown. She could see he was happy, but also concerned about her reaction.

‘If you married her, she would live here?’

‘If I say so.’

She sensed the hardening in his voice. In a way, it hurt, and in another, it made no difference at all.

She shook her head, resigned to whatever he wanted to do. ‘It won’t matter to me. I won’t be here. Somehow or other I will get to France.’

When her father muttered that he understood, his eyes were moist. She tried to remember the last time she’d ever seen him looking as disturbed as he was now. She couldn’t.

‘I’m sure I’ll be quite safe,’ she said as reassuringly as she could.

He swallowed as though he were choking back words he did not wish to utter, but they came out anyway.

‘Yes. Thankfully you will be in the service of the Red Cross,’ he said softly. ‘The Red Cross are neutral.’

None of them knew exactly what would happen at the hospital. Lydia had noticed strained looks as she hurried up the steps to the main entrance. Sometimes there were ugly mutterings, though nothing direct, nothing too hostile.

Because of this both Lydia and her father believed they could carry on, Lydia at least until her position with the Red Cross was confirmed. Until that happened she did not work late, unless she stayed in the hostel overnight.

Her father would hear none of it. ‘I have my new motor car. I can go backwards and forwards quite safely, therefore if I am attending at the hospital and called to stay late, I will do so.’

It was seven days exactly after that pronouncement before the inevitable occurred.

The child was very sick, the mother very worried.

‘Is she going to live, Doctor?’

Doctor Eric Miller adopted his most professional expression. A little hope, a little moderation.

‘I will do what I can,’ he said to the mother of the child who lay so pale and so sick in the hospital bed.

The child was taking deep rasping breaths, her tiny chest heaving up and down with each one; like a pair of bellows with the hole half blocked, Doctor Miller thought.

‘Do you have other children?’ he asked.

She nodded at the same time as dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Three other children, Doctor. They will be waiting for their supper, but I cannot leave this child alone all night. Not my Saskia.’

‘You won’t be leaving your daughter alone. I will be here – all night if necessary.’

The woman lifted her shawl from her shoulders and tied it tightly around her head, crossing the ends across her breasts.

‘You promise me this, Doctor?’ she asked, her eyes mute with pleading.

‘I promise you this,’ he answered her in German.

‘Then I will pray for God to bless you. You are a good man, Doctor.’

He knew she would keep to her word, perhaps entering the synagogue on her way home.

Sister Ursula was on duty and looked surprised to see him still there.

‘I told your daughter that you had already gone home,’ she admonished him. ‘Are you leaving soon?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I promised Mrs Lehman that I would keep vigil over her daughter. She still has a very high fever. I’m hoping it will break before dawn.’

‘You don’t need to stay. I can keep an eye on her.’

Doctor Miller shook his head again. ‘No. Mrs Lehman has three other children, and a husband come to that, waiting for their supper. I promised her I would sit with her child all night, and I will. Perhaps you can furnish me with a little food and drink?’ he asked hopefully.

Sister Ursula smiled girlishly and said that she would. Doctor Miller was her favourite doctor, one of the few who treated the nurses as equals and every patient as an individual. He was a good man and she would ensure that he received the best food and hot drinks throughout the night.

Before she left to tend to other patients, she carefully swabbed Saskia’s face with a damp cloth and replaced the bowl of steaming hot water beside her bed. Doctor Miller replaced the wire cage over the child’s head, plus the rubber sheet that covered it. The steam from the bowl seeped into the contraption through a rubber tube.

Doctor Miller had used the device a few times before. For the most part it worked, but there had been those who died; he sincerely hoped that Saskia Lehman wouldn’t be one.

There was a small table close to the bed where he could make notes on other patients, drink tea, eat cake provided by Sister Ursula, and worry about Lydia and her determination to get to France.

He was her father and it worried him, but also he couldn’t help feeling a little proud of her. She was so like her mother, so like the woman he had gone out of his way to purge from his thoughts.

The night dragged on, twilight turning into darkness more quickly now, with autumn only just around the corner. The trees in London avenues still sported green leaves with only the faintest hint of yellow. The weather was still good and news from France at best positive, at worst sporadic. He understood beyond doubt that Lydia would go there.

He knew he would doze during this night vigil, but had asked Sister Ursula to wake him if anything developed.

‘And don’t let me sleep too long,’ he warned her. ‘Ten minutes at intermittent intervals should be enough.’

Being a dutiful nurse, who respected him, she made no comment.

He was dreaming of when he was a young doctor, a surgeon with the Prussian army. It was all such a long time ago.

Somebody was shaking his shoulder.

‘Doctor Miller! Doctor Miller! You must look at the child.’

Eric blinked open his eyes to see Sister Ursula’s face looming over him. It was difficult to tell anything from her placid expression, but he feared the worst.

After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he noticed she had removed the rubber sheet. All that remained was the wire cage that had held it up off the child’s face so she could breathe.

It wasn’t the first time he’d approached a patient feeling as though he had just swallowed a lump of iron, and that was how it felt now.