The Nightingale Sisters (2 page)

The cluster of buildings, connected by a warren of passageways and staircases that had been so difficult for her to navigate during the day, was already beginning to seem familiar to her, even in the darkness.

She turned a corner and found herself in an office corridor so long that the end was swallowed in impenetrable blackness. Violet held her torch higher, making the shadows leap and dance around her.

As she passed the first door, a frightened squeal made her jump.

‘Who’s there?’ a voice squeaked. The next minute a woman’s face loomed out of the shadows, eyes bulging with terror. She brandished a broom like a weapon.

Violet recognised her as one of the cleaners she had taken on earlier. As Night Sister, her first duty had been to go down to the Porters’ Lodge and choose from the women who gathered there every evening, hoping for a night’s work cleaning the offices. As it was so foul outside, only a few of the most desperate had come. Violet was glad she hadn’t had to turn anyone away.

‘Beg your pardon, Sister, I thought you was a ghost.’ The woman lowered her broom, her hand moving to press against her fluttering heart. ‘I got lost, and I’ve been wandering around here in the dark. Now I dunno where I am . . .’ Her voice trembled. ‘And the lights aren’t working. I reckon there’s been a power cut or summat.’

The woman’s eyes were round with fear. ‘On a terrible night like this and with everything so dark – well, you imagine all sorts, don’t you?’

‘Don’t worry. You’re quite safe here.’

The woman looked at her admiringly. ‘I bet you’re not frightened of anything, are you, Miss?’

Violet smiled to herself. If only you knew, she thought. ‘Here, you’d best have this.’ She handed her the torch.

‘You’re sure you don’t need it?’ the cleaner called after her as she walked away.

‘Quite sure.’ Darkness held no fears for Violet Tanner. She felt safer in the shadows.

The bad weather had unsettled many of the patients. On Female Chronics, the harassed young student nurses seemed close to tears as they rushed around, desperately trying to soothe the old ladies, who wailed and sobbed and rattled at the bars of their cots. It was the same on the Children’s ward, where frightened babies, woken by the shrieking wind, screamed without stopping.

‘Sister Parry says we’re to leave them,’ the young student told Violet briskly as she approached the nearest cot where a toddler was standing up, red-faced and screaming.

‘Sister Parry isn’t here, is she? I am.’ Violet moved past her. The baby, sensing a sympathetic presence, held out his chubby arms.

‘But Sister Parry says they’ll get spoilt if we go to them,’ the girl insisted. ‘She says if we ignore them they’ll exhaust themselves and go to sleep.’

‘What is your name, Nurse?’

‘Hollins, Sister.’

‘Well, Hollins, how would you like it if everyone ignored you when you were upset and frightened?’

As the girl struggled, open-mouthed, for an answer, Violet scooped the toddler up into her arms. She could feel the sobs shuddering through him as he buried his face in her neck. His warm skin smelt of baby powder.

‘Shhh, sweetheart. It’s all right, it’s only the silly wind making a noise, that’s all.’ She swayed gently, rocking him in her arms as she whispered words of comfort. His soft curls tickled her cheek.

Gradually she felt the sobs subside, and his heavy weight against her shoulder told her he was asleep.

‘And if he cries again, Hollins, I want you to comfort him,’ Violet instructed the student as she lowered him gently back into his cot. ‘The same goes for the other babies. And if Sister Parry doesn’t like it, she can speak to me,’ she added, as the girl opened her mouth to protest.

‘Yes, Sister.’ Hollins bobbed her head, but her face was pinched.

Two hours later, Violet finished her rounds and went back to the small office assigned to the Night Sister. On her way, she slipped into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. According to Matron, Night Sisters were allowed the luxury of a maid to bring them tea and see to their comforts, but Violet didn’t want to trouble her. The fewer people who noticed her, the fewer questions they would ask. Violet didn’t like questions.

But she liked the Nightingale. She hadn’t been too sure about it at first, but after old Mr Mannion died she didn’t have anywhere else to go. And then the advertisement for the Night Sister’s job had appeared in the
Nursing Mirror
, and it seemed as if providence was pointing the way for her.

She was probably safer here, anyway. A busy hospital in the East End of London was the last place anyone would think of looking for her.

‘Violet Tanner.’ She said it out loud, listening as the sounds hung on the air. It was a long time since she’d called herself by that name, and she still hadn’t quite got used to it again. But she generally got used to all her names, soon enough.

She stirred her tea. ‘Violet Tanner, Night Sister at the Florence Nightingale Teaching Hospital,’ she said again.

Yes, she decided. It suited her. For now.

THERE WAS AN
extra place laid for Alf Doyle at the dinner table.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Old habits die hard, eh?’ Rose’s smile was brittle as she cleared the plate away.

No one else around the table said anything, but Dora knew they were all thinking the same thing; her mum might be putting on a brave face as usual, but she wasn’t fooling anyone.

It was New Year’s Eve, and round the corner at the Rose and Crown the locals were having their usual knees-up, bidding a noisy farewell to 1935. Dora could hear the sound of laughter and singing drifting down Griffin Street as she and her family gathered around the dinner table.

Any other year they would have been in the thick of it. Nanna Winnie would be in the saloon bar with a bottle of milk stout, done up in her best dress, face heavily powdered and teeth in for the occasion, taking in all the goings on so she could gossip with her cronies later. Dora’s mum Rose, flushed from too many port and lemons, would be singing along to the piano as it bashed out all the old favourites.

But not this year. The atmosphere in the kitchen at number twenty-eight Griffin Street was sombre, even though they were doing their best to pretend that everything was normal.

Except Dora’s youngest sister Bea, of course. The twelve year old never bothered to hide her feelings from anyone.

‘What’s this?’ She prodded the lump of brown meat on her plate, her freckled nose wrinkling in disgust.

‘It’s melt,’ Dora hissed. As if Bea didn’t know. The butcher sold it for threepence, and the locals called it ‘poor man’s joint’.

‘But we always have chicken at New Year,’ her sister protested.

‘We had a chicken at Christmas, love. We can’t run to another one.’ Her mother doled a spoonful of mashed potatoes on to a plate. ‘We ain’t made of money, I’m afraid.’

‘We always had chicken when Dad was here,’ Bea said sullenly.

‘Shh!’ Dora, her grandmother and sister Josie hissed together.

‘Yes, well, we had a lot of things when your dad was here,’ Rose said briskly. ‘But he ain’t here now, so we’ve just got to make the best of things, haven’t we?’

She was smiling when she said it, but Dora noticed her mother’s hand trembling as she passed another plate down the table.

It had been three months since Dora’s stepfather Alf Doyle had disappeared. He’d just packed a bag one day and upped and gone without a word to anyone. Even his pals at the railway yard where he’d worked hadn’t seen him since. Her mother and grandmother had gone to the police, but they didn’t bother trying to find him. As far as they were concerned, Alf was just another bloke who’d done a flit from his family.

Dora wasn’t sorry to see him go. For five years she’d suffered abuse at Alf’s hands, living in fear of him creeping into her room at night, silenced by her shame. It was only when she’d found out he’d started abusing her sister Josie that she’d finally found her voice.

Not that it had done much good. The day she’d finally confronted him, Alf had laughed and given her a beating. But then, just as she thought she would never defeat him, he had vanished.

It was a shock to them all, but her mother had taken it hardest. Rose Doyle was a typical East End woman, tough and hard-working, the kind who never complained but rolled up her sleeves and got on with life, no matter what it handed out to her. She had coped eleven years ago when she’d been left widowed with five children to bring up. She had taken the blow when her daughter Maggie had died at the age of thirteen. But the disappearance of her second husband had broken her spirit, and her heart.

No one spoke while they were eating. The only sound was the crackling voice of Al Bowlly on the wireless singing ‘Blue Moon’, his plaintive tones deepening their gloom.

Dora stared down miserably at her plate. She had fought to get a rare sleeping-out pass from the hospital so she could spend New Year’s Eve with her family. She knew her mother appreciated her being here, but Dora couldn’t help thinking guiltily she might have had more fun back at the nurses’ home, even under the Home Sister’s watchful eye.

Nanna Winnie tried to lighten the mood. ‘Why don’t we all go down to the pub after tea, cheer ourselves up a bit?’ she suggested.

‘You go if you like.’ Rose shrugged. ‘I’m stopping here.’

‘But it won’t be the same without you, Rosie love. Come on, you could do with a night out. A good old sing-song with your pals would do you the world of good.’

‘And listen to all the neighbours talking about me? No thanks.’

‘No one’s talking about you, love.’

‘Oh, come on, Mum! You’ve heard them all whispering, same as I have.’ Rose looked up, anger flaring in her brown eyes. ‘Our family’s all they talk about these days. Y’know, I heard Lettie Pike’s even putting it about that I did Alf in for the insurance. As if we’d be sitting down to ox spleen for our dinner if I’d come into money!’

She laughed, but Dora could see the pain in her face. Rose Doyle was a proud woman, who liked to keep herself to herself. Knowing her family’s business was the talk of Bethnal Green must be agony for her.

‘Anyway,’ she said, putting down her knife and fork, ‘I can’t go out. I’ve got some more mending to do.’

‘You can give it a rest for one night, surely?’

‘I like to keep myself busy. And we need the money, don’t forget.’

‘How are you managing for money, Mum?’ Dora asked.

‘Oh, we’re all right. I’ve started taking in laundry, as well as mending, so that brings in a bit more. And now your brother and Lily have moved in upstairs, they’re helping out with the rent. We’ve not got as much room to breathe, but at least it’s not so much for me to clean,’ she added brightly.

‘We all have to share a bedroom,’ Bea grumbled. ‘There’s no room, and we can hear Nanna snoring downstairs.’

‘I do not,’ her grandmother denied heatedly. ‘How can I snore when my lumbago keeps me awake every hour of the night?’

Dora looked across the table at her mother. She was laughing with the others, but Dora could see the strain behind her eyes. The Doyles had been one of the few families in Griffin Street to rent their whole house by themselves, and to have to let out a room was a huge blow to Rose’s pride. But at least it was only Peter and his wife who were living there. Having to live with another family, like the Pikes and the Rileys did next door, would have been much worse.

‘I wish you’d let me leave school and help out,’ Josie piped up. ‘I told you I could get a job at Gold’s Garments—’

‘And I told you you’re not to think about it,’ her mother said. ‘You’re staying on at school and getting your exams so you can be a teacher, and that’s final. I’m proud of both my clever girls –’ she beamed at Dora ‘– and I’m not going to let anything stand in your way. Even if I have to work all day and all night,’ she added firmly.

Dora and Josie looked at each other. ‘Best not to argue with her.’ Dora smiled.

‘Besides,’ Rose went on, ‘Alf will probably be back from his travels soon. Then we’ll be right as rain.’

Silence fell around the table. ‘For Gawd’s sake, girl, do you really reckon he’s coming back?’ Nanna said finally, her patience giving way. ‘All this time without a single word, he could be halfway to bleedin’ China—’

‘He’ll come back,’ Rose interrupted her firmly. ‘My Alf wouldn’t walk out on his own family.’

‘He’s already walked out, love. God knows why, but he’s gone. Now you’re not the first girl whose old man did a bunk, and I daresay you won’t be the last. A man like that’s not worth a spit anyway, after what he did to you—’

‘Don’t talk about him like that!’ Rose snapped. ‘He’s a good man. You don’t know what’s happened to keep him away from us. He could have had an accident. He could be dead in the Thames.’

‘I hope to God he is,’ Nanna grunted, her toothless jaw set in a stubborn line. ‘Because if he turns up on this doorstep after all the trouble he’s caused, I’ll swing for him myself!’

Never one to miss out on any drama, Bea started snivelling. ‘Mum, is that right? Is Dad dead? Has he been murdered?’

‘And you can shut up an’ all!’ Nanna turned on her. ‘People don’t pack their bags if they’re off to get murdered, do they? Blimey, you can see who got the brains in this family, can’t you?’ she muttered.

‘He didn’t pack everything,’ Rose reminded her. ‘He only took a few things with him, so that means he meant to come back.’ She looked around at them all, her smile brittle. ‘Now I’m sure he had his reasons for going away. But he’ll be home soon, and everything will be all right again.’

‘And Moby Dick will swim up the Thames!’ Nanna muttered, as they cleared the plates away.

‘Do you think he’ll come back, Dor?’ Josie asked her later as they did the washing up in the narrow scullery.

‘I hope not.’ Dora piled the dishes into the chipped stone sink.

‘Sometimes I wish he would.’

Dora turned to face her sister in surprise. ‘After what he did to us?’

‘I just want to see Mum happy again.’ Josie’s brown eyes were solemn. Unlike Dora, Bea and their elder brother Peter, who were all ginger-haired, freckled and sturdily built like their late father Jack, the fifteen year old had inherited their mother’s slim, dark-haired beauty. ‘I hate him, Dora, you know I do. But I hate listening to Mum crying every night, when she thinks we’re all asleep. And you know she goes out looking for him? Walks the streets for hours, she does, in the middle of the night. Or she’ll go and stand at the gates of the railway yard, as if she expects him to turn up for his shift like nothing’s happened. It breaks my heart.’ She bit her lip. ‘And she worries, too, about how we’re going to manage. I know she says we’ll be all right, but I can see it on her face every time the rent man knocks on the door. She’s working herself into the ground.’