The Nightingale Sisters (47 page)

There was already a queue outside the Queen’s Theatre on Poplar High Street when they arrived.

Joe looked worried. ‘I didn’t think it would be this packed. The house doors aren’t supposed to open up for another half an hour.’

‘Don’t fret, it’ll be fine,’ Dora reassured him.

‘But you’ve been on your feet all day. You don’t want to stand out here.’ He frowned up at the sky. ‘And it looks like it’s going to rain.’

Dora smiled, in spite of her aching feet. It was true, she could have done with a sit down. But Joe had made such an effort, she didn’t want him to think she didn’t appreciate it.

‘It’ll be worth it,’ she said.

‘I hope so.’ Bless him, he was so anxious to please. They’d been out twice in the past fortnight, and each time he had put so much effort into making sure she had a good time.

Last time they’d gone up west to a very fancy restaurant. ‘Only the best for my girl,’ he had said as he pulled out his wallet. Dora was grateful, but the truth was she had felt intimidated by her fancy surroundings. Instead of relaxing and enjoying herself, she’d spent the whole evening worrying in case she accidentally used the wrong fork or put her elbows on the table.

She looked at him, dressed up to the nines in his best suit. There weren’t many young men who would go to so much trouble. But sometimes she wished he wouldn’t try so hard to impress her.

Luckily there were several street entertainers to make the wait go quickly. Vendors walked up and down the queue, selling apples, oranges and hot roasted nuts. Joe bought them a bag of chestnuts which they shared while they watched the entertainment. First there were a couple of sand dancers in full Egyptian costume, followed by a fat middle-aged man with a bright red face and bushy sideburns. He stood at the front of the queue, belting out ‘Danny Boy’ at the top of his voice while his wife passed the hat around.

‘Garn! Get off, you’re rubbish!’ Across the road, raggedly dressed children sat on the kerb eating chips out of newspaper and jeering at the free show.

‘I hope the singers on the stage are better than he is,’ Joe whispered to her.

‘I hope he doesn’t do himself an injury!’ Dora grimaced back.

No sooner had she said the words than something very strange happened. The man stopped singing abruptly, his eyes went very wide and, with a strange choking sound, he sank to his knees.

‘What’s he doing now?’ the children shouted from across the road.

‘Is this part of the act?’ someone behind them asked.

No one seemed very sure, until the man’s wife let out a scream and sprinted back up the queue to her husband, scattering coins from her hat as she went.

Dora thrust the bag of nuts into Joe’s hands and ran after her. He followed on her heels.

By the time they reached the man, he was lying on the pavement, his arms and legs jerking like a puppet on a string. A thin stream of froth was bubbling from between his lips.

‘What is it, Bert? What’s wrong?’ His wife’s voice was shrill with terror. Dora moved her gently aside and knelt down beside him.

‘He’s having a convulsion,’ she explained, fingers already working frantically to loosen his collar studs. Flesh bulged over the edge of his tight collar.

‘He’s never had one before!’ His wife looked outraged.

‘Well, he’s having one now.’ She turned to Joe. ‘Quick, give me something to put in his mouth to stop him biting his tongue.’

Joe patted his pockets. ‘How about this?’ he said, pulling a pencil out of his inside pocket.

Dora opened his mouth and wedged the pencil in between his teeth. She managed to snatch her hand out of the way before his jaws clamped shut. Then she pulled off her coat and put it over him.

‘Take my jacket, too.’ Joe shrugged it off and gave it to her. She bundled it up into a ball and put it under the man’s head.

By the time the ambulance had arrived, the man had regained consciousness and was staring around in confusion.

‘Don’t try and move,’ Dora advised. She looked at his wife, who seemed to be in a worse state than her husband. ‘He’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘He’ll just need a warm drink and some time to recover quietly.’

The woman clutched Dora’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.’

‘Looks like we’ve missed the show.’ Joe nodded towards the doors, where the theatre manager was hanging up a sign saying ‘House Full’. They’d been so involved with looking after the man they hadn’t noticed the theatre doors opening and the queue starting to move.

‘We couldn’t very well leave him, could we?’ Dora brushed herself down and put her coat back on.

‘You did a good job, looking after him,’ Joe said admiringly. ‘You didn’t even have to think about it.’

‘If I’d thought about it, I probably wouldn’t have done anything,’ she admitted. ‘We’re not supposed to tend to emergencies on our own while we’re training.’

They stood on the empty pavement, looking around them. ‘What do we do now?’ Joe said.

‘I don’t know. Go home, I suppose.’ She shrugged.

Joe’s frown deepened. ‘But I wanted to give you a night to remember.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll forget tonight in a hurry, do you?’ Dora said ruefully.

At that very moment, thunder cracked overhead and the heavens opened, emptying a deluge of rain that came so suddenly they didn’t even have time to get to the nearest doorway before they were drenched.

They stood there staring at each other. Joe looked so comical, soaked from head to foot, fair hair dripping on to his outraged face, that Dora couldn’t help laughing.

‘It’s not funny,’ he grumbled.

‘You’re not standing where I am!’

‘But everything’s ruined. And I’d planned it so carefully. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to give you the best night of your life—’

He looked at Dora, who was still laughing, and a reluctant smile started to tug at the corners of his mouth. Next minute he’d burst out laughing too.

‘Look at us, a pair of drowned rats! Some evening this has turned out to be.’ He shook his head. ‘Now you’ll never come out with me again.’

‘I will . . . as long as you stop trying so hard!’

He looked rueful. ‘I just wanted to put the smile back on your face.’

‘You’ve certainly done that!’ Dora held on to her aching sides.

It was true, she thought. It felt like such a long time since she’d really laughed at anything. What with her family’s money problems, her mother’s heartache over Alf, and her own sadness over Nick, there hadn’t been much to smile about lately.

But now, with Joe, she felt her leaden heart begin to lighten. It was time to forget the past and to give him a chance to make her happy, she decided.

‘You look lovely when you smile,’ he said. ‘You should do it more often.’

She looked up into his eyes, her eyes shining. ‘Maybe I will,’ she said.

‘And to my wife Violet, I leave my full estate, where the context so admits the estate shall mean all my property of every kind wherever situate, and all my property of every kind wherever situate over which I have a general power of appointment, and the money, investments and property from time to time representing all such property . . .’

Violet watched the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as Mr Edgerton, the solicitor, talked. He had been talking for what seemed like hours, but all she could think about was escaping into the fresh air. The atmosphere in the office was stifling. The solicitor’s droning voice and the musty smell of old books were beginning to make her head ache.

Mrs Sherman sat beside her, stiff and unmoving. Her face was rigid, but her fingers plucked at a loose thread on her coat.

Finally, Mr Edgerton finished speaking and laid down the thick parchment document. ‘I believe that is everything,’ he said. He peered over his spectacles at Violet. ‘It seems your husband has left you a very wealthy woman, Mrs Dangerfield.’

Violet stared at him blankly.

‘But they were estranged!’ Mrs Sherman burst out, breaking the silence of the room. ‘She hadn’t lived with him for five years. That will is out of date!’

Mr Edgerton turned to look at her. ‘I can assure you it isn’t, Mrs Sherman.’

‘And I can assure you it is!’ Mrs Sherman’s nostrils flared with anger. ‘Mr Dangerfield told me himself he had rewritten his will so that everything went to his son. She got nothing!’ She pointed a shaking finger at Violet. ‘He told me everything was to be held in trust, and I was to administer it on Oliver’s behalf until he came of age. He said—’ Her voice quivered with emotion, and she fought for control. ‘He said he would see to it that I always had a roof over my head.’ She looked at the solicitor, her pale eyes wild and bulging. ‘You came to the house yourself, Mr Edgerton. Just before he passed away.’

‘You are correct, Mrs Sherman. Mr Dangerfield did amend his will, two weeks before he died.’ Mr Edgerton picked up the piece of parchment. ‘This is the amended will, I promise you. You may see the date and his signature, if you wish?’ He offered it to her but she looked away, her mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. ‘I’m afraid that perhaps your employer misled you as to his intentions . . .’ His voice was sympathetic.

Violet glanced across at Mrs Sherman’s face, blank with shock.

‘Very well,’ the older woman said, her chin lifting. Without looking at Violet, she said, ‘If Mrs Dangerfield will allow me some time to pack my belongings and find a new place to live, I will leave Curlew House as soon as possible.’

‘You don’t have to go.’ Violet found her voice at last and turned to the solicitor. ‘I don’t want my husband’s money, Mr Edgerton. Not a penny of it. I never did.’ She cast a quick sideways glance at Mrs Sherman. ‘I am content for the estate to be placed in trust for my son. And I would like Mrs Sherman to go on living in Curlew House. I know she will take care of it for Oliver.’

Mr Edgerton frowned. ‘And you would be agreeable to this, Mrs Sherman?’

Mrs Sherman’s lips parted but no sound came out. She gave the curtest of nods.

‘Well, I suppose . . . although this does seem most unusual.’ He peered at Violet. ‘If you’re sure, Mrs Dangerfield? You might want to reconsider—’

‘I won’t,’ she said firmly. ‘And my name is Tanner. Violet Tanner,’ she corrected him.

After the meeting, she and Mrs Sherman found themselves out in the street together.

‘I suppose I should thank you,’ the older woman said stiffly, as if each word pained her.

‘There’s no need, I assure you,’ Violet replied, equally coldly.

‘I will take good care of the house . . . for Oliver.’

‘I have no doubt of that.’

There was a tense silence. Violet was just about to walk away, when Mrs Sherman suddenly said, ‘I don’t understand . . . Mr Dangerfield told me he had changed the will. He promised he would take care of me.’

Violet looked at her lined, gaunt face. She looked so old and afraid, Violet wondered why she had ever been so terrified of her.

Poor Mrs Sherman. In a way, she had been as much a victim of Victor’s sick, twisted cruelty as she had.

‘He promised he would take care of me too, Mrs Sherman,’ she said softly. ‘Now perhaps you can see what kind of man he really was.’ She pulled on her gloves. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to go to work.’

Oliver was already there, waiting for her. Miss Hanley had kindly volunteered to collect him from school, although Violet suspected it wouldn’t be long before he was making his own way home . She watched him running around with Sparky on the lawn, watched fondly by Sister Sutton as she tended her garden. Later they would have tea together, and when it was her night off, Violet would join Sister Blake and the other sisters for choir practice.

She smiled to herself. Victor might have left her a house, but she had already found a home.

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Epub ISBN: 9781446494028

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Published by Arrow 2013

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Copyright © Donna Douglas 2013

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First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Arrow

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