The Nightingale Sisters (44 page)

Not that she would have left him, in any case. Even now, she couldn’t trust her husband not to break his promise and try some trick to take her son away from her.

Victor’s mouth firmed. ‘As you both wish,’ he said. ‘But I hope you will have tea with us this time?’ He sent her a meaningful look. ‘Mrs Sherman has taken a great deal of trouble to prepare it.’

He nodded to the housekeeper who sprang forward avidly. ‘I have baked all your favourites,’ she told Oliver, her pale eyes shining. ‘Fairy cakes, angel cake, banana loaf—’

‘I like chocolate cake best,’ he announced. ‘Sister Parker has chocolate cake for us sometimes, when I visit her and Sister Sutton for tea,’ he added importantly.

Mrs Sherman’s lips quivered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have chocolate cake,’ she faltered.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told her kindly. ‘I’m sure your cakes will be smashing. Won’t they, Mummy?’

Victor’s cruel laugh turned into a hacking cough. ‘The child knows his own mind,’ he said.

Violet ignored him, noticing Mrs Sherman’s stricken expression. Only the hardest and most unfeeling person would not have felt for the other woman’s distress.

Mrs Sherman had prepared a magnificent spread for tea. As they took their places around the table she watched them with longing from the doorway, her gaze still fixed on Oliver. Violet sensed her reluctance to be out of his presence.

‘Won’t you join us, Mrs Sherman?’ she invited her boldly. Mrs Sherman’s gaze flicked from her to Victor, hope flaring in her eyes. ‘I’m sure Mr Dangerfield won’t mind, as this is a special occasion?’ Violet stared at Victor, daring him to disagree.

She noted the look of quiet fury on his face, but all he could say was, ‘Yes, please join us, Mrs Sherman.’

Sitting down to tea together reminded Violet of all the interminable meals she had taken in this house, sitting at the table with her eyes lowered, terrified that Victor would pick her up on some dreadful mistake she had made in her manners. Speaking only when spoken to, not daring to offer an opinion, fearful of a black look from beneath his bushy brows.

But Oliver’s presence had transformed him. He talked to the child animatedly about his likes, dislikes and interests. Which were his best subjects at school? Which sports did he enjoy? Victor devoured the information with a keen interest Violet had never seen in him before, his face lighting up with pride as Oliver boasted about the prize he had won at school for his spelling, and the adventure stories he loved to read. She saw the way Victor looked at his son, and her heart ached for the family they might have been.

Gradually Oliver lost his shyness as he talked about his school, the hospital, and the garden he was planting with Sister Sutton.

‘And I’m teaching Sparky to fetch a stick,’ he told them proudly. ‘Although he’s not very good at it yet.’

‘Would you like to play in our garden?’ Victor suggested.

Oliver gazed longingly out of the window. ‘May I?’

‘I don’t think so, darling . . .’ Violet began to say, but Victor cut her off.

‘I don’t see why not,’ he said.

‘He’s wearing his best clothes.’

‘You wouldn’t deny the child fresh air and fun for the sake of some mud, would you?’ Victor’s eyes glinted challengingly. ‘What a spoilsport your mother is, Oliver.’

Violet was silent, staring at him with intense dislike. He couldn’t help himself. He had to dominate her. Even now he was trying to twist her son against her.

‘Mrs Sherman will help you with your coat.’ Ignoring Violet’s wishes Victor nodded to the housekeeper, who rose eagerly from the table and held out her hand to the boy.

Oliver hesitated. ‘May I go, Mummy?’ he asked.

Violet gave him a tight smile. ‘Of course, darling. But stay where I can see you, won’t you?’

‘And don’t go off with the bad people!’ Oliver finished for her, singing out the words merrily.

‘Is that what I am to him? One of the bad people?’ Victor asked in a low voice, as they watched him play from the window. She couldn’t drag her eyes away, fearful that if she took her eyes off her son for even a second he would be spirited away.

‘For a long time, yes.’

‘And am I still one of the bad people?’

‘You tell me.’

They stood in silence, watching their son running on the grass, his arms outstretched like an aeroplane in flight. The old grandfather clock measured the passing minutes with a steady, echoing tick.

‘He’s a fine boy,’ Victor said at last, not looking at her. ‘A credit to you.’

She steeled herself, waiting for the barb. It didn’t come.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He leant heavily against the stone sill, supporting himself with a thin, claw-like hand. ‘I wish things had been different.’

‘So do I.’

‘It’s not too late.’ He turned his gaze on her. ‘You could come back and live here?’

‘So you can try and turn him against me?’

‘So I can spend some time with my son before I die.’

She steeled herself. ‘I’ve already told you, Victor, that’s out of the question.’

‘Why? The boy is a Dangerfield. I need him here.’

She looked at him, understanding. ‘This is nothing to do with loving your son, is it? You’re just a scared, sick man who doesn’t want to die alone.’

‘The child belongs with his family,’ he bit out.

‘Family!’ Her mouth curled with contempt. ‘We were never a family, Victor.’

‘He is
my
flesh and blood!’

‘Perhaps. But he is not your family.’ She stared at him, unflinching. ‘You have no family, Victor. You lost your family the day you first raised your hand to me.’

A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Perhaps we should ask the boy if he wants to stay here?’ he snapped.

‘I decide what’s best for him.’

‘Running up and down the country, dragging him from hovel to hovel – is that what you call doing your best?’ he sneered. ‘I can give him more than you ever could.’

The steely hatred in his eyes wrenched Violet back into the past. She saw herself on the floor, cowering under his raised hand.

‘I am his mother,’ she whispered, her courage failing her.

‘And I am his father.’ Victor lifted his hand and Violet flinched before she realised he was gesturing to Mrs Sherman to bring Oliver inside again.

Panic filled her chest. ‘What are you doing?’

Victor gave her a chilly smile. ‘I am going to talk to my son.’

He turned slowly, shuffling around on his cane as Mrs Sherman ushered Oliver into the room. He was out of breath and pink-cheeked from running, his dark hair sticking up.

‘Did you enjoy the garden, Oliver?’ Victor smiled at him.

‘Oh, yes, thank you, sir.’ He turned to Violet. ‘You should come and see it, Mummy. There’s a little summerhouse, and a wood – and a lake with fish in it, just like the park!’

‘I know, sweetheart,’ she said quietly.

Victor addressed the child. ‘How would you like to play in that garden every day?’

Violet stiffened. ‘Victor—’ she began, but he held up a hand to silence her.

‘I have asked the boy a question,’ he bit out.

Oliver frowned in confusion, looking from one to the other. ‘I – I don’t understand—’

‘It’s quite simple, Oliver. I am asking if you – and your mother, of course – would like to come and stay here. You could have the garden to play in, and you could choose which flowers to plant. Mrs Sherman could help you. Isn’t that right, Mrs Sherman?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Violet saw the housekeeper’s tight smile out of the corner of her eye.

‘You could even have a dog, if you wished,’ Victor promised.

‘A dog?’ Oliver’s face lit up. ‘You mean a puppy?’

‘One of your very own. Think of the fun you could have, and all the tricks you could teach it.’

Violet’s heart sank, and she tried to step in. ‘Really, I don’t think—’ she started to say, but Victor cut her off.

‘Let the child speak for himself,’ he said curtly, eyes still fixed on Oliver. ‘Well, boy? What do you say to that?’

Oliver considered it for a moment. ‘It sounds very nice, sir,’ he replied cautiously. ‘But if you don’t mind, I prefer the gardens at the hospital. I really don’t think Sister Sutton could manage without me there. She finds it very hard to bend in her old age, you see. And there would be no one to throw sticks for Sparky. He’s old too, but he’s getting quite good at playing fetch.’ Oliver glanced warily at his mother. ‘If that’s all right?’ he said.

‘Of course it is, sweetheart.’ Violet smiled with pride in her son. She turned to Victor. ‘I think you have your answer.’

They left soon afterwards. As Violet bundled Oliver into his coat in the hallway, Victor asked, ‘Will you bring him again?’

She met his gaze, something she had rarely dared to do before. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t think I will.’

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded briefly. Even her husband knew when he was beaten.

‘I understand,’ he said quietly.

‘Who was that man, Mummy?’ Oliver asked again, when they were in the taxi heading back to the station.

‘I told you, darling. He’s just someone Mummy used to know.’

‘So he isn’t my father?’

Ice trickled down her spine. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘That old lady whispered it to me, when we were in the garden. But I told her not to be silly, because my father was handsome and clever and he’s dead.’ Oliver pulled a face. ‘And I didn’t like that old lady. She kept trying to touch me, and she had hands like claws. Like a witch.’ He twisted round to look out of the narrow strip of back window. ‘Do you think there were ghosts in that old house, Mummy?’

Violet glanced back at Curlew House, receding into the distance. ‘I think there probably were.’

‘How horrible.’ He flopped back in his seat. ‘We don’t have to go back there, do we?’

Violet stroked his head. ‘No, Oliver.’ She smiled. ‘We don’t have to go back there ever again.’

RUBY PIKE HAD
never looked so lovely. She was wearing a new pink dress that clung to her figure, her blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face.

‘Do you like it? It’s how Jean Harlow does hers,’ she said, primping her curls with her fingers.

‘It’s – very nice.’ Nick could hardly look into her eyes.

She went to kiss him, but he averted his face so she caught only the corner of his mouth. ‘Shall we get going?’ he said, moving towards the door.

‘Where are you taking me tonight?’ Ruby smiled up at him. ‘There’s a new film on at the Rialto.’

‘I thought we’d just walk down to the café for pie and mash.’

Her painted mouth curved downwards in disappointment. Usually she would complain, say she was wearing the wrong shoes, or tell him in no uncertain terms she hadn’t dressed up like a Hollywood starlet just to sit in some greasy Joe’s. But this time she nodded compliantly. She seemed very anxious to please, almost as if she knew what Nick was planning to do.

He’d lain awake all the previous night, trying to work out how to break the news. There was no easy way to tell her it was over, but it had to be done. He couldn’t go on pretending, it wasn’t fair on either of them.

He thought about Dora, seeing her smiling face in his mind’s eye. He still couldn’t believe that she actually loved him. Dreams didn’t often come true for the likes of Nick Riley, but this one had.

Now he began to dream of other things, too. He saw them flying off to America together with Danny, to start their new life. He saw them arriving in New York, stepping off that aeroplane, hand in hand, their hearts full of hope. He’d talked about going often enough, but deep down he’d always doubted if he could take that final step. Now, with Dora by his side, he felt brave enough to take on the world.

‘Nick?’ Ruby’s voice brought him up short. He started guiltily. He’d been so preoccupied with his own thoughts, he hadn’t realised how far they’d walked. Now she was standing outside the pie and mash shop, both hands planted on her hips. ‘Are we going in, or what?’ she demanded.

Inside, the brightly lit café was warm and busy. The aroma of freshly baked pies mingling with the pungent tang of cooked eels was usually irresistible, but for once Nick didn’t feel hungry as they slid into one of the wooden booths that ran down one side of the café. On the other side, a large woman in a white overall served a line of customers from behind the marble-topped counter, ladling pie and mash and liquor on to plates and handing them over with one hand while deftly ringing up the till with the other.

‘What are you having?’ Nick offered, pulling out his wallet.

‘Just a cup of tea for me.’

He frowned at Ruby. He was in no mood to eat, but it wasn’t like her to miss out. ‘You sure?’

‘I know. I’m a cheap date, ain’t I?’ Ruby’s smile didn’t meet her eyes as she took off her hat and fluffed up her curls.

He watched her as he lined up at the counter for their order. She seemed miles away as she sat writing her name in the steamed-up window. He wondered with a jolt if she really did know what was coming. Perhaps she was preparing herself for it as much as he was?

Whatever troubled thoughts were in her mind seemed to be gone by the time he returned to the table with their tea. From having nothing to say, Ruby suddenly seemed anxious to fill the silence. Nick listened to her gossiping about the goings-on at the garment factory, and her brothers’ latest brush with the law, letting her words wash over him as he struggled to work out what he was going to say.

Finally, as they drained the last of the tea in their cups, he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.

‘Listen, Ruby—’ he began.

‘Ooh, look,’ she said, pointing out of the window. ‘You see that woman’s coat? I was thinking of buying one just like it. What do you think?’

‘Very nice. Ruby, I’ve been thinking—’

‘I’m not sure it would suit me, though. I think you have to be a lot taller to carry that fashion off.’

‘Ruby—’

‘And the colour is a bit dull, isn’t it? I like something nice and bright myself—’

‘Ruby!’ He caught her hand, turning her towards him. ‘Listen to me, please. I’ve got something to say to you.’

She sobered instantly, her smile disappearing. ‘I’ve got something to say to you, too.’