The Nightingale Sisters (14 page)

‘I don’t want it,’ Maud said, turning her head away. ‘I refuse to be fed like a child.’

‘Come on, Mrs Mortimer, you have to keep your strength up,’ Helen pleaded. ‘Just try one sip for me—’

‘I told you, I don’t want it!’ Maud shoved the cup away from her with such force, it flew out of Helen’s hand and skimmed across the floor.

There was an appalled silence. Sister Hyde stalked over to Maud, her expression stern.

‘Really, Mrs Mortimer, you must let Nurse Tremayne feed you,’ she warned her. ‘Otherwise—’

‘Otherwise what?’ Maud faced her defiantly. ‘I’ll starve to death?’

‘Otherwise we will have to use a feeding tube,’ Sister Hyde said quietly.

There was a long silence. Even from the other end of the ward Millie caught the brief flash of fear in Maud’s face.

‘Very well, then,’ she said with dignity. ‘You may feed me.’

Sister Hyde smiled. ‘That’s better. Tremayne, prepare another feeding cup. And Benedict,’ she called over to her, ‘see this mess is cleaned up at once.’

As Millie mopped the floor, she watched Helen feeding Maud.

‘There,’ she said soothingly, holding the cup to her lips. ‘That’s not so bad, is it?’

Millie caught the bleak look in Maud’s eyes, and remembered what she had said about being at the mercy of girls with sunny smiles. It was bad, she thought. As far as Maud Mortimer was concerned, it couldn’t get much worse.

‘
I’M SORRY, LOVE.
The room’s gone.’

Violet stared at the woman who stood on the front doorstep, arms folded across her chest. She looked straight back at her, her face a blank mask.

‘But it was available this morning.’ It had been perfect. Large, filled with light, with a door that led out on to the garden. ‘I told you I wanted it. I said I was coming back this afternoon with the money—’

‘Yes, well, someone beat you to it, I’m afraid.’

Violet drew herself upright. ‘You told me the room had been available for weeks. It’s very strange that two people should turn up and want it on the same day, don’t you think?’

‘These things happen.’ The woman shrugged.

Violet held on to Oliver’s hand. ‘So it has nothing to do with my son?’ she said quietly.

The woman’s darting gaze gave her away. ‘I thought you were a respectable single lady,’ she muttered.

‘I’m a widow.’

‘Is that right?’ The woman glanced meaningfully at Violet’s cheap ring, glinting unconvincingly in the pale sunlight. ‘You weren’t wearing that this morning?’

‘I have to take it off when I’m working.’

‘Oh, yes? And what kind of work would that be, then?’

Colour scalded Violet’s cheeks. ‘I’m a nurse!’

‘If you say so, dearie.’ The woman looked at her sceptically.

Violet held in her anger, determined not to let Oliver see her upset. She hated the way the other woman looked down her nose at her, but at the same time she couldn’t blame her. She wouldn’t be the first young mother to buy a cheap ring from a pawnshop and try to pass herself off as a widow for the sake of respectability.

It’s not what you think, she wanted to cry out. But fear kept her silent.

‘Look, love,’ the landlady said kindly. ‘I’m sure it can’t be easy for you. You seem like a nice woman. But I can’t let you have the room. Not with—’ Her eyes flicked to Oliver and away again. ‘Haven’t you got any family that can help you out?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Violet’s voice faltered. ‘I don’t have anyone.’

‘Then I feel sorry for you, I really do.’

Violet stood on the doorstep for a moment after the front door had closed in her face, blinking back the tears.

‘Mummy?’ Oliver pulled on her hand, his voice uncertain. ‘Are we going to live here?’

‘No, sweetheart. It turns out it’s not the right place after all.’

‘But I don’t want to live with Mrs Bainbridge any more.’

Neither do I, Violet thought. But we don’t have a lot of choice.

‘We’ll find somewhere soon, darling,’ she promised. By the time she looked down at him, she’d managed to summon up a smile. ‘Now then, shall we go home through the market? We’ll buy some apple fritters from the van, how about that?’

‘Yes, please!’ Oliver did a little dance, wriggling and jiggling while she held his hand. ‘And can we have fish and chips for tea?’

‘Why not? I think we deserve a treat.’

They walked home, past shops decked out in sombre black crepe to mark the King’s death. It was freezing cold and a biting wind blew through the narrow streets but at least it had blown away the choking fog. Violet stayed out for as long as she could, partly because she dreaded going back to the damp, dark tenement, and partly to give Oliver the chance to get some fresh air. She’d noticed his breathing was getting worse recently, his little chest rising and falling as he gulped for air. Mrs Bainbridge had also complained that his coughing kept her awake.

But finally she couldn’t put it off any longer, and they trudged back home, stopping for fish and chips on the way.

Their little room reeked of damp and decay. Violet tried not to notice the patches of black mould creeping up the plasterwork under the window as she helped Oliver out of his coat, then went into the kitchenette to set out their fish and chips.

‘Can’t we eat it out of the newspaper?’ he begged.

‘Certainly not.’

‘But that’s how Mrs Bainbridge eats it.’

‘All the more reason for us not to,’ Violet murmured to herself as she pulled two plates out of the cupboard.

That was when she noticed the cocoa tin was gone.

The place might be rotting around their ears, but she kept it spotlessly clean. The wooden surfaces were scrubbed with lysol, and everything was lined up neatly in the cupboards. So it was easy for her to spot when something had been moved. Or taken.

A cold feeling washed over her. She reached to the back of the cupboard, scrabbling among the tins and packets, already knowing that what she was looking for was missing, but not wanting to give up hope.

‘Mummy!’ Oliver called out.

‘Just a minute, darling. Mummy’s looking for something.’

But the old Rowntree’s cocoa tin in which she kept her money and the few treasured belongings she had, was gone.

Forcing herself to stay calm, she gave Oliver his fish and chips, then went downstairs and knocked on Mrs Bainbridge’s door.

It was a few minutes before she came to the door, wiping her hands on her flowery pinny. Over her shoulder the kitchen was a chaos of babies wailing, children arguing and the rancid smell of frying fat.

‘Yes? What do you want?’

Violet had meant to stay calm. But seeing Mrs Bainbridge’s narrow, sly face was too much for her.

‘Where’s my tin?’ she demanded.

Mrs Bainbridge blinked at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know very well. I had an old cocoa tin in my cupboard and it’s gone.’

‘What are you looking at me for? I ain’t had it.’

‘Someone has.’ Violet looked past her into the kitchen. Half a dozen children stared back at her, all with eyes as sly as their mother’s.

‘Are you calling me a thief?’

Violet struggled to keep her temper. ‘I just want my belongings back,’ she said patiently. ‘I don’t even care about the money. But there was jewellery in that tin. A locket my mother gave me. It’s all I have left . . .’

‘Then you should have taken better care of it, shouldn’t you?’

‘And you should stop helping yourself to other people’s things!’

Mrs Bainbridge looked outraged. ‘I ain’t had your rotten locket,’ she snarled. ‘You’re welcome to search the place if you don’t believe me. But I’m telling you, you won’t find anything here.’

She stepped back from the doorway. Violet stared past her into the steamy fug of the kitchen. What was the point? she thought. Her jewellery would have found its way to the pawnshop hours ago.

‘Or maybe we should call in the police?’ Mrs Bainbridge suggested. ‘Let them sort it out?’

‘No!’ Violet saw the flare of triumph in Mrs Bainbridge’s eyes and realised she’d spoken too quickly. ‘Just stay away from what’s mine,’ she said quietly.

‘And does that include your boy?’ the landlady called after her as she headed back towards the stairs. ‘I s’pose that means you don’t want me keeping an eye on him while you’re out any more?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Well, I’m not sure as I want to. It’s not nice, y’know, being called a thief when you’re just trying to be neighbourly. I reckon I might need an apology from you before I put myself out again.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Violet whispered.

She walked back up the stairs to the top of the house, burning with fresh anger and frustration at each step. How she hated that evil woman! But Mrs Bainbridge was right. Violet couldn’t even put a lock on the door because she relied on her to look after Oliver while she was at work.

He looked up at her as she let herself back into their room. ‘Mummy, your fish and chips have gone cold.’

‘I’m not very hungry any more.’ She picked up her plate and tipped its contents into the bin.

After tea, she got Oliver washed at the sink and into his pyjamas, read to him and put him to bed.

‘I’ve left you some milk and biscuits in case you get hungry in the night,’ she said, stoking up the fire. ‘Now remember, sweetheart, what Mummy always tells you?’

‘Don’t touch the fireguard, and don’t let any strangers into the room,’ he parroted dutifully. ‘And don’t go off with anyone, no matter what they tell me.’

‘That’s right.’ Violet sat down on his narrow bed and kissed her son goodnight. As always, she hugged him fiercely, gripped by a terrible fear that this would be the last time she saw him.

‘I wish you didn’t have to go away every night, Mummy,’ he said.

‘So do I, darling.’

‘I liked it better when we lived with Mr Mannion in the big house.’

‘Me, too,’ Violet sighed. There had been fresh air there, and a big garden for Oliver to play in. And old Mr Mannion, poorly as he was, had loved to watch him from the French windows. He said Oliver brought a breath of life into the old, decaying house. His own children had grown up and moved away long ago, and never visited him. In fact, they seldom had any visitors. Which was why Violet had felt so safe there.

But then Mr Mannion had died, and his sons and daughters had finally remembered they had a father. They had descended on the house, picking over Mr Mannion’s belongings like crows on carrion. The house had been sold, and Violet had been sent away.

But coming to London had been a mistake, she thought. She had imagined she could get lost in the big city, that she could make a new life for herself and her son without arousing anyone’s curiosity. But she had been wrong.

She arrived at the Nightingale and headed straight for the Porters’ Lodge. Mr Hopkins the head porter greeted her at the door. He was a fussy little man, with a bristling moustache and a military bearing enhanced by his polished shoes and well-pressed brown overall. A stickler for protocol, he wore a black crepe armband out of respect for the King.

‘They’re all waiting for you round the back, Miss,’ he said in his lilting Welsh accent. ‘Quite a turn-out tonight.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hopkins.’ Violet went around to the back of the Lodge, where the would-be night cleaners clustered together, sheltering from the wind.

Violet looked at the gaggle of hopeful faces all turned towards her. This was her least favourite task of the night. She took a deep breath and chose quickly.

‘It’s not fair, she got picked last night,’ one of the women protested as Violet ushered the lucky few away.

Violet steeled herself. There was always someone who wasn’t happy.

‘Come back tomorrow night,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘And what am I going to tell my husband when I go home empty-handed? He’s going to kill me if I don’t bring some money in tonight.’

Violet heard the pleading note in the woman’s voice but walked on.

‘That’s right, walk away from me. It’s all right for you, you snotty cow!’ the woman called after her. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to have an old man at home who batters you black and blue, do you?’

Violet set the night cleaners about their duties then crossed the courtyard to her small sitting room on the night corridor and changed into her uniform. She could almost feel herself becoming a different person as she fastened the starched cuffs on her grey dress and tied the long strings of her cap under her chin. For a few hours, she could cast off the cares and troubles of Violet Tanner to become the Night Sister.

But the Night Sister had woes of her own to deal with, she realised, as she met Sister Wren on the sisters’ corridor.

Violet’s heart sank when she saw her approaching with Sister Blake from the other end of the passageway, a tight-lipped expression on her face. She was clearly on the warpath about something.

‘I want a word with you.’ She bore down on Violet, her small face full of spite and fury. ‘What do you mean by undermining me?’

Sister Blake looked dismayed. ‘Really, Sister Wren—’

‘Undermining you? I don’t know what you mean,’ Violet replied calmly.

‘Don’t be obtuse! I asked you to supervise the punishment of one of my students, but you refused.’

‘Perhaps you should discuss this in private?’ Sister Blake suggested tactfully.

‘Mind your own business!’ Sister Wren turned on her.

Violet Tanner straightened her shoulders. ‘Yes, I did refuse to supervise the punishment,’ she said.

‘May I ask why?’

‘I thought it was spiteful and pointless.’

Sister Wren’s dishwater-grey eyes blazed. ‘Spiteful . . . pointless?’

Violet nodded. ‘As far as I could see, it served no useful purpose.’

‘It was a punishment!’

‘If you were out to punish the girl, then surely sending her to Matron would have been just as effective? There was no need to subject her to humiliation. Unless that was your aim, to bully and humiliate her?’

Cords of rage stood out on Sister Wren’s scrawny neck.

‘How dare you!’ She choked on her words. ‘You have no right to speak to me like that. You’re only the Night Sister!’

Violet stared down at Sister Wren. Her little fists were balled at her sides, her face contorted with rage. She was so small and so furious, she reminded Violet of Oliver stamping his feet in the middle of a tantrum.