The Nightingale Sisters (17 page)

‘There must be something else we can do?’

‘Like what? Believe me, love, I’ve done everything. I work night and day at the laundry, and Nanna and Josie are doing piecework from the box factory.’

Dora looked up sharply. ‘Josie’s working?’

‘Only part-time, evenings and weekends.’

‘But what about her schoolwork?’

‘She can still keep up with her schoolwork, don’t you worry.’ Dora saw Nanna shake her head warningly, and looked at her mother. Rose’s head was bowed, her dark hair streaked with grey that hadn’t been there recently. She was such a proud woman, it must be breaking her heart to be in this position.

‘I should do something too,’ Dora said.

‘You already do more than enough, handing over your keep every week.’

‘I could give you even more if I went back to work at Gold’s.’

‘No, Dora.’ Rose shook her head. ‘I won’t hear of it.’

‘I mean it, Mum. We’re a family, we’ve all got to pull together. I can earn more as a machinist at Gold’s than I do as a student—’

‘Please, love.’ Her mother’s dark eyes appealed to her. ‘I’ve already had Josie risking her future. I don’t want to see another of my girls do it.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I haven’t done much with my life. All I’ve got to be proud of are my kids. Just to see you in that uniform, to know you’re going to have a proper career, not taking in washing or skivvying for a living – well, it gives me some hope to cling to when things get bad.’ She reached for Dora’s hand and squeezed it.

She looked down at her mother’s callused fingers wrapped around hers. ‘It just doesn’t seem fair,’ she said. ‘Not when everyone else is working so hard . . .’ At least let me give you all my wages?’ she offered. ‘I know it’s not much, but it might help?’

‘Won’t you need it?’

‘What for? My board and lodgings are already found, and it’s not as if I get the time to spend anything!’ Dora smiled wryly. ‘And I’d like to do my bit to help, if I can. Please, Mum. It’ll make me feel better.’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . . ?’ Her mother looked grateful. ‘Thanks, love.’

‘You never know, it might help keep the Means Test man away!’ Dora joked feebly.

But when she saw the look that passed between her mother and grandmother, she had the uneasy feeling that he would still be knocking on the door one day soon.

‘ACUTE BRONCHIAL CATARRH,’
the doctor pronounced, unhooking his stethoscope from his ears.

‘Are you sure?’ Violet asked. ‘His temperature is rather high—’

‘My dear lady, a slight fever is to be expected with this condition. I assure you, it’s nothing to worry about.’

He patted her arm when he said it. He had a typical doctor’s way of speaking, a mix of arrogance and condes-cension that made her hackles rise.

‘This is not a slight fever,’ she said, holding on to her temper. ‘A slight fever is less than one hundred and two degrees. My son’s temperature was one hundred and three the last time I checked it. I’m a nurse,’ she explained, as the doctor raised his eyebrows.

‘If you’re a nurse then I’m sure you’ll know that living in damp conditions like these is not helping your son’s weak chest?’ he retorted, glancing meaningfully at the black patch of mould under the window.

Violet fell silent. Having put her firmly back in her place, the doctor smiled kindly at her. ‘I realise you have some medical knowledge, Mrs—’ He consulted his notes vaguely.

‘Gifford,’ Violet said automatically.

‘Mrs Gifford. But in this situation you are first and foremost an anxious mother. Of course you will exaggerate the importance of certain symptoms, or even notice symptoms that aren’t there. Mothers imagine the worst, my dear. It’s their job.’

‘And am I imagining the way he’s breathing, too?’ Violet looked anxiously at Oliver. His sterno-mastoid muscles were struggling, drawing his head back and thrusting his chin forward with every breath.

‘An inhalation of Friar’s Balsam or turpentine will soon sort that out.’ The doctor was already packing up his bag to leave. ‘If he’s no better in a couple of days, send for me again. And in the meantime, try to do something about your lodgings.’ He gazed around him, his mouth curling with distaste. ‘Living here really isn’t doing your son any good, you know.’

Tell me something I don’t know, thought Violet. She was tempted to show him all the advertisements for accommodation she had answered, only to be turned away because no one wanted a single mother and her child. Even if she did tell them she was a widow.

The doctor packed up his bag. Panic rose in her chest as he headed for the door. ‘You can’t leave Oliver like this!’ she cried out.

He turned back to look at her. ‘I’m sure he will do very well under your excellent nursing.’

Violet listened to him going down the stairs. Why hadn’t he listened to her? She wasn’t just another anxious mother. Oliver was sick, really sick, and he had done nothing about it.

‘Mummy?’

‘I’m here, sweetheart.’ She summoned a smile for her son. She had rigged up a bedrest with an upturned chair covered with pillows so that he could sit up, but he was still struggling for breath.

She sat on his bed and brushed away a dark lock of hair that clung damply to his forehead. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘A bit better.’ He looked up at her, his dark eyes huge. ‘You won’t leave me, will you, Mummy?’

‘No, darling, I’m not going anywhere.’ She had already made her mind up she would call the hospital and make an excuse not to go in. ‘I have to stay here and nurse my baby, don’t I?’

She got up and threw a couple of lumps of coal on to the fire, watching as the flames stirred back into life. Then she replaced the fireguard and adjusted the makeshift screen of sheets thrown over a clothes horse that she’d assembled to protect Oliver from the draught coming through the open window.

She rubbed liniment into his little chest, feeling his ribs rising and falling under her hand.

‘It hurts, Mummy,’ he complained.

‘I know, darling.’ She felt the pain of every breath he took as if it were her own lungs that were clogged. ‘This will make you feel better.’

But as she rubbed the liniment into his skin, she knew it wasn’t enough. Anxiety flowed through her, filling all the space inside her head like black ink.

Once she’d done her best to make him comfortable, she washed her hands and dried them.

‘Right, I have to go out for a moment – don’t worry, I’ll be back very soon,’ she added, seeing her son’s look of dismay. ‘I just have to telephone the hospital and tell them I won’t be coming in. They’ll need to find another nurse to look after the patients tonight if I’m not there, won’t they?’

Oliver still cried as she left and Violet wept too as she hurried down to the phone box on the corner.

The Matron, Miss Fox, was very good when Violet explained that she was running a slight fever and couldn’t come in.

‘Of course you must go to bed immediately,’ she said, full of concern. ‘Don’t forget to take plenty of fluids. Do you have anyone looking after you?’

Hearing the warmth and concern in her voice, Violet felt herself cracking. She wanted to break down and cry like a child. She wanted to tell her the truth, that she was alone and frightened and she didn’t know what to do. But instead she held herself rigid and assured Miss Fox that she was perfectly capable of caring for herself, and that all being well she would be back on duty the following evening. When had lying become second nature to her? she wondered.

Mrs Bainbridge intercepted her in the hall, carrying a large saucepan. Violet steeled herself for another bruising encounter, but Mrs Bainbridge surprised her by handing her the pan.

‘I’ve made some broth. I thought you might want some for your boy?’ she offered. ‘I know the little mite’s proper poorly, so I thought it would help.’

Violet could see from her expression that Mrs Bainbridge was acting out of guilt for all those times she had neglected him and not made up the fire. She would have liked to refuse it on principle, but was so exhausted by worry she welcomed even the tiniest scrap of comfort and kindness.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the pan from her hands.

That afternoon she prepared an inhalation of Friar’s Balsam and rigged up a steam tent around him while she heated up the broth. To her great relief, Oliver managed to eat everything she gave him, then announced he was bored.

‘Why can’t I get up and play?’ he mumbled through clenched lips as Violet checked his temperature.

‘When you’re better, darling.’

‘But I feel better now!’

‘Let’s see, shall we?’ She checked the thermometer. A hundred and one. Perhaps the doctor was right, after all? ‘Tell you what, why don’t I fetch the cards and teach you a new game?’

The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent playing cards and reading. Oliver demanded his favourite book,
The Water Babies
, even though he’d heard the story a hundred times.

Afterwards, Violet got into his bed with him and held his feverish little body to hers until he fell asleep. It was a treat to be with him. She had missed talking and singing to him, and reading him a bedtime story.

‘Did my daddy know about me?’ he asked sleepily, his eyelids already drooping.

Violet stopped stroking his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I don’t remember him at all.’

Violet let her hand run slowly over his sleek dark head, so like his father’s. ‘Yes, he knew all about you,’ she replied carefully.

‘And did he ever play with me, and read to me like you do?’

‘You were just a baby when he knew you. But he loved you. He loved you with all his heart.’ A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed it down determinedly.

‘I wish he wasn’t dead,’ Oliver said firmly. ‘I think I would like a daddy.’ He twisted his body to look up at her. ‘You should get married to someone else,’ he decided.

Violet laughed. ‘There’s only room for one man in my life, sweetheart.’ She eased him gently off her shoulder and stood up. ‘Now it’s time for you to go to sleep.’

‘Promise you’ll think about it,’ he said as she settled him back against the pillows and tucked the covers under his chin. ‘Promise you’ll think about getting married to someone else.’

‘All right, I’ll think about it,’ she agreed. ‘Now get some sleep.’

She sat with him, holding his little hand in hers, until his eyelids finally fluttered closed and he drifted off to sleep. Then she gently let go of him and stood up, massaging her stiff muscles.

She made up the fire again and then went over to pull the curtains. It was a clear, starry February night, with fresh, mild air that held the promise of spring. Soon winter would be over and the weather would be fine enough to take Oliver out every day, she thought. He could breathe fresh air and she wouldn’t have to worry about his weak chest for a few blessed months.

Then she realised with a shock what day it was. She had been so worried about Oliver, she hadn’t even remembered it was her birthday.

She gazed over the moonlit rooftops and wondered if anyone else out there had remembered. Had her mother thought about her at all? If she had, it probably wouldn’t be with fondness. Violet dearly wished she could write to her, but her mother had made it very clear four years ago that she no longer wished to hear from her daughter.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she dashed it away. Perhaps Oliver was right, she thought. Perhaps she should find a husband, someone to take care of her.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was never going to happen. She was on her own now, and for her own sake and Oliver’s, it had to stay that way.

‘I’m sorry,’ Millie said.

‘But it’s my birthday, Mil. We arranged all this ages ago. You said you could come.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know Mrs Tremayne and the Board of Trustees would choose that day to pay a visit to the ward, did I? We were only told about it this morning.’

Millie shivered in the frigid chill of the nurses’ home corridor as she listened to Seb on the other end of the telephone line. She didn’t blame him for being upset. She had been looking forward to flying over to Le Touquet for his birthday. But now Sister Hyde had cancelled all leave.

‘Yes, well, we mustn’t let Mrs Tremayne down, must we?’ he said bitterly.

‘Don’t be like that, Seb, please,’ Millie begged. ‘You know I can’t help it.’

‘I suppose not.’ He paused. ‘This Mrs Tremayne – she wouldn’t be any relation of your friend William, would she?’

‘She’s his mother. Why?’

‘No reason. So when am I going to see you again?’

‘I’ll definitely be able to come to Sophia’s house party.’

‘That’s a whole month away. Can’t I see you before then?’

‘I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. They never tell us when we’re allowed a day off until the last minute. I only managed to get to Sophia’s party by telling them my cousin was getting married in Scotland. I just hope Sister Wren doesn’t check the Society pages!’ She listened to the silence at the other end of the line. ‘You are all right about this, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’

‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

He laughed. ‘Sounds intriguing. Tell me more.’

She heard the sound of a dog yapping in the distance. ‘Look, I’d better go. I can hear Sister Sutton coming. She’s bound to catch me for something.’

‘I love you—’

‘Love you, too. Sorry, Seb, I’ll call again as soon as I can.’

She hung up the phone just as Sister Sutton rounded the corner, her Jack Russell terrier Sparky as ever at her heels.

‘Benedict?’

Her voice rang out down the hallway, stopping Millie in her tracks. Sister Sutton’s squat, wide body almost filled the hallway.

‘Sister?’

She had no choice but to stand and wait as Sister Sutton lumbered down the hall towards her, flat-footed in her stout black shoes. Her uniform strained over her vast bosom, and the bow of her starched cap was almost lost in the fleshy folds of her chin.

‘I went up in your room earlier, Benedict. It’s a disgrace,’ she snorted. ‘Your belongings were strewn everywhere, your bed wasn’t made properly, and when was the last time you turned your mattress?’