The Nightingale Nurses (43 page)

‘Poor?’ Amy flashed her a bitter look. ‘Not stupid, or evil, or a homewrecker?’

‘Why would I think that?’

‘Because that’s what most people think. That’s what my mother thinks, anyway.’

They finished their tea and Amy got up to leave. ‘What will you do now?’ Helen asked.

‘Keep writing to hospitals asking if I can finish my training, I suppose. Although I don’t hold out much hope, if the responses I’ve had so far are anything to go by. How about you?’

‘I have no idea.’ Helen shrugged. ‘I haven’t even thought about it.’

‘At least you have a choice.’

‘Hardly! The State Finals are tomorrow morning, remember?’

‘I’m sure your mother could pull a few strings, if that’s what you wanted.’ Amy looked at her consideringly. ‘You know, I’ve always been rather jealous of you.’

‘Me, why?’

‘Because your mother cared about you.’

Helen snorted. ‘Interfered, you mean?’

‘Call it what you like,’ Amy said. ‘But perhaps if my mother had interfered a bit more, I might not be in this mess!’

Constance returned from church an hour later.

‘Has your friend gone?’ she asked, pulling off her gloves.

‘She had to catch her train back to London.’ Helen didn’t add that Amy was terrified of coming face to face with Mrs Tremayne.

She waited for her mother to make a comment about Helen missing church, but she didn’t. ‘It was very nice of her to come and visit you on her day off, I must say.’

‘It wasn’t her day off. She’s been dismissed from the Nightingale.’

Constance looked round sharply. ‘Oh? For what reason?’

‘She had an affair with a married man,’ Helen announced. ‘A surgeon at the hospital.’ Her mother went very still. ‘It’s a pity she wasn’t allowed to take her Finals,’ Helen added.

‘If that’s Matron’s decision.’

Helen watched her mother unpinning her hat and smoothing down her scraped-back hair. She might have known her mother would take that attitude.

‘I daresay you agree with it,’ said Helen. ‘I expect you think she deserves everything she gets.’

Constance turned to her. ‘Is that what you really think of me, Helen? Do you think me so lacking in compassion?’ Helen was taken aback by the hurt in her eyes. ‘If you must know, I think it’s a harsh punishment to take away a girl’s future for the sake of one foolish mistake. Very harsh indeed.’

Helen stared at her in surprise. She had never known her mother show any compassion towards other people’s failings.

But then Mary appeared and Constance immediately returned to her usual self, briskly giving the maid orders about when and how to serve lunch. Mary was taking it all in, her face a carefully composed mask of attentiveness. Helen smiled, wondering what the maid was really thinking behind that blank expression. Over the years Mary had been in service with them, she had become more and more inscrutable.

But even then, Constance wasn’t satisfied.

‘Really, that maid will have to go,’ she said. ‘I truly don’t know whether she is stupid or just difficult. She never seems to take in a word I say. I’m sure she’s out there in the kitchen, peeling away half the potatoes . . .’

‘I daresay you’re right, Mother,’ Helen sighed in agreement. She headed for the stairs to return to her room, but her mother called her back.

‘If you have a moment, I would like to speak to you in the drawing room?’

Helen paused, her hand resting on the polished wood of the newel post. Could she really face another argument with her mother? They had barely spoken after their last short, angry outburst two days earlier. But Helen had the feeling Constance was biding her time, waiting for the chance to point out her shortcomings yet again. It was like a storm brewing, turning the air heavy.

She knew she would have to get it over with sooner or later, but not now.

‘Do you mind if we talk later, Mother? I have a letter I would like to finish.’

Her bedroom had been Helen’s sanctuary for as long as she could remember, but never more so than now. It reminded her comfortingly of her childhood, decorated in light pinks and greens, with its window overlooking the garden, framed by flower-sprigged curtains, and her bookshelves crammed with all her childhood favourites. Her bed, well stuffed and luxurious compared to her hard, narrow horsehair mattress at the nurses’ home, was covered in the patchwork quilt her mother had made for her. The whole room was bright, sunny and smelled of lavender polish, a smell that took her right back to a time when her life was far less complicated.

As she sat down at her dressing table, she noticed a small glass vase filled with violet-blue Michaelmas daisies. The maid must have put them there for her while she was talking to Amy.

Helen sat down, opened the drawer and pulled out the letter she had been writing. She had barely taken up her pen when there was a soft knock on the door and her mother appeared.

‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ Helen looked curiously at the cup in her mother’s hand. Serving tea or any other kind of refreshment in bedrooms was one of the many things of which Constance disapproved, smacking as it did of indulgence and ‘pandering’. Even when she was ill as a child, Helen had had to struggle down to the dining room for her meals.

But the tea was just an excuse for her mother to continue their conversation, Helen realised.

Sure enough, after she had placed the cup on the dressing table, Constance perched herself awkwardly on the edge of Helen’s bed.

‘Who are you writing to?’ she asked.

‘Charlie’s mother.’

‘Ah.’ Constance was silent for a moment, taking it in. ‘That must be a great comfort to her?’

‘I hope so.’ Although it was hard to know what to write, or whether hearing from Helen helped Mrs Dawson at all. All Helen knew was that it made her feel as if Charlie hadn’t left her.

‘You’re close to his mother, I gather?’

Helen stiffened, sensing criticism. ‘She’s been very kind to me.’

‘Kinder than your own mother, I daresay,’ Constance sniffed.

Helen stayed silent. She tried to write her letter, but she could feel the weight of her mother’s expectation as she sat gazing around the bedroom. Finally, Helen put her pen down. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

Constance didn’t reply. When Helen glanced over her shoulder, she was surprised to see an expression of what looked like uncertainty on her mother’s face. She had never before known Constance ever have a moment’s self-doubt.

Finally, she spoke. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said, looking down at her hands. ‘Something I feel you ought to know, at any rate,’ she amended. ‘I can’t say it’s something I wanted anyone to know about, but I thought it might help – explain the way I am.’

Helen twisted around on her chair so that she was facing her. ‘Go on,’ she said.

Constance kept her gaze fixed on her hands. Her fingers laced and unlaced themselves in her lap as if they had taken on a life of their own. ‘When you talked about your friend Amy’s . . . predicament,’ she began, then stopped, gathering her thoughts. ‘You expected me to condemn her for what she did, but I couldn’t. Because I was in her shoes myself once.’

The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

‘I don’t understand?’

Constance managed a small smile. ‘Really, Helen, you don’t have to sit there with your mouth open. Is it so hard to believe I was young and foolish myself once?’

Yes, Helen thought, it is. Although from the way Constance’s hands trembled as she smoothed her skirt primly over her knees, perhaps her mother still wasn’t as self-assured as she liked to make out.

‘What happened?’

Constance paused for a moment, composing herself. ‘As I said, I was very young,’ she began. ‘I had just finished my training, and I was in my first Staff Nurse post on a TB ward.’

‘At the Nightingale?’

‘No. St Cecilia’s, on the south coast. That was where I did my training, before I moved to the Nightingale.’ Constance shot her a cross look. ‘Really, Helen, it has taken me thirty years to tell this story. If you are going to interrupt me, it may take another thirty.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Go on.’

Constance resumed her tale. ‘As I said, I was in my first Staff Nurse post. He was a consultant surgeon, very dashing and extraordinarily clever. Even the other consultants were wary of him.’

‘A bit like Mr Latimer,’ Helen murmured, then caught her mother’s warning look and promptly shut up.

‘We used to be so in awe of him when he walked into the ward. Of course, I never dreamed he would notice me.’ Constance smiled, remembering. ‘How very special I felt when he picked me out from the other nurses to pay me attention. I had no idea at the time, of course, that he always went for the younger, less experienced girls because they were easier to dazzle.’ Her mouth set in a thin, bitter line.

‘And did you know he was married?’ Helen asked.

Constance’s gaze drifted towards the window. A guilty flush spread up her thin neck. ‘I’m ashamed to say, I did,’ she said. ‘But he convinced me it didn’t matter,’ she added quickly. ‘He told me he didn’t love his wife, that he had never loved her, but he couldn’t divorce her because of the shame it would bring on his family. He convinced me that if I could only be patient, then one day we would be together. And, of course, I believed him,’ she said. ‘I believed him because I loved him and it never occurred to me that he might be – taking advantage of me.’ She lowered her eyes, and Helen could see the shame washing over her still, even after so many years.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘People talked, as they do. And before long, the gossip reached Matron’s ears. I was hauled up before her and made to explain myself.’ Constance’s smile was full of self-mockery. ‘When I think about how I stood there in her office, so sure of myself, I hardly know how I dared. I told her that this man and I were in love, and that we were planning to marry one day. I all but demanded that she should summon him to back up my story.’

‘But she didn’t?’

‘How could she? He was a consultant, she couldn’t very well summon him as if he were some probationer. Besides, she already knew he would deny everything. Because this wasn’t the first time she’d been in this position, you see. I was just the latest in a string of young girls who had fallen prey to his charms.’ Constance shook her head. ‘I could tell she pitied me, in a way. She understood the situation far better than I did, naive as I was. But even so, she had no choice but to dismiss me from the hospital.’

‘Did you ever see him again?’ Helen found herself perched on the edge of the stool, leaning forward eagerly.

‘I tried, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with me. He cut me off just like that.’ Constance made a sweeping movement with her hand. ‘But even then I refused to believe that he could abandon me. I convinced myself that it must be his wife’s doing, that she had some hold over him and was forcing him to turn against me. I wrote him letters, sent them to his home, the hospital, his club – anywhere I could think of. I was desperate, you see. But none of them were ever answered.’ Her face was desolate. ‘I don’t think I have ever felt so alone and betrayed in my whole life. I’d lost everything, and I didn’t think I would ever live down the shame.’

‘But you did,’ Helen said.

‘Eventually.’ Constance allowed herself a smile. ‘After a while, I found a new place at the Nightingale, and I met your father, and slowly I began to piece my life back together again. But I’ve never forgotten the terrible mistake I made. How I lost everything, just because I fell in love with the wrong man. That’s why I’ve always protected you, watched over you so closely. I didn’t want you to go through the same pain as I did.’

As Helen watched her mother, slowly the truth began to dawn. ‘And you thought Charlie was the wrong man, too?’ she said.

‘I was afraid for you. I saw how your love for him consumed you. Perhaps I was wrong,’ Constance conceded. ‘That day when he came here, I realised how much he loved you. How he was prepared to fight for you . . . But even then I still thought that he would drag you down, stop you being the bright, successful young woman I’d always hoped you would be.’

‘Charlie would never have stopped me from doing anything,’ Helen said. ‘He loved me too much for that.’

Constance sent her a wistful smile. ‘And yet here you are, without a future, because of him.’

Helen remained silent. ‘I’m sorry,’ her mother sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I promised myself I wouldn’t nag you about your exams any longer.’ She smiled. ‘You have to make your own decisions. If nothing else, the past few weeks have taught me that.’

She rose from her seat. ‘Now, I’ll have to go and see what that silly girl has done to the potatoes. They were as hard as bullets last time.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Helen blurted out.

Constance frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ll take my Finals,’ she said. ‘If it’s not too late?’

Her mother smiled and Helen was relieved to see her supreme confidence back in place. ‘Of course it won’t be too late,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to that.’

THEY SHALL NOT
pass.

Everywhere she looked Dora saw those four words. Scrawled in white paint across brick walls; pasted across shop windows; on bed sheets fluttering from lamp posts and banners held aloft by the noisy, seething mass of people that crowded into Cable Street on that Sunday afternoon.

Everywhere she looked there was a bobbing sea of heads, arms and waving flags. ‘Bar the road to Fascism!’ came the booming message from a loudspeaker van as it nosed its way through the crowd. As if anyone needed telling. Shopkeepers were busy putting up shutters, while above them women and children hung out of the upper windows, passing down furniture to the street so the people below could create barricades out of old bedsteads, tables and chairs. A few were even tearing up paving slabs to build a makeshift wall.

They had been told that the march would be coming down three routes through the East End. But one had been abandoned before the march even started, and now thousands of protesters were crowding into the other two routes to cut them off too.