The Silver Locket (7 page)

‘We were in a cellar that got shelled. Some bricks fell on my head and knocked me out. Or so the nurses said. I had some cuts and bruises, but they’ve healed.’

‘So you weren’t badly hurt at all – no broken bones or anything like that.’ Chloe pursed her lips. ‘The Royal Dorsets have taken quite a hammering. My father says they’re down to half their strength.’

‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ said Alex.

‘My mother thought you’d washed your hands of me.’ Chloe began to walk along the platform. ‘She said your kind don’t marry girls like me, so was she right?’

‘No, she was wrong.’

‘So we
will
be married?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Alex took her limp, white hand and tried to force a smile. ‘We’ll need to get a move on, though – I shan’t be in England very long. How old are you, Chloe – twenty, twenty-one?’

‘I’m twenty-two next Wednesday. So we wouldn’t need to wait for anyone’s consent, unless of course you’re not–’

‘I was twenty-one last May.’ Alex led Chloe through the barrier, out on to the concourse. ‘So we could get a special licence. Chloe, I have a fortnight’s leave. We could go and stay in a hotel, as man and wife.’

‘Stay in a hotel?’ Chloe’s pale face flushed. ‘Alex, I don’t think my mother–’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Chloe, you’re grown up! It doesn’t matter about your mother! If you want to marry me–’

‘You know I do. But my father said you’d have to get permission from the colonel.’

‘I’ve spoken to the colonel.’

‘Oh – I see.’ Chloe squared her rounded shoulders, lifting the enormous mound of baby. ‘Alex, I’ve been thinking about names. If it’s a boy, I rather fancy Victor – or maybe Jack, or Frank? If it’s a girl, the names of flowers are pretty. What do you think of Lily?’

‘Let’s wait until the baby’s born.’ Lily, Violet, Poppy – anything, thought Alex, provided it’s not Rose.

Maria didn’t take Rose to meet Mrs Pankhurst or her daughters, to be harangued by harridans who wanted to turn women into men and make them ride astride. There wasn’t time to go to meetings. Everyone was working double shifts, and every day new casualties came in.

More wards at St Benedict’s were cleared for wounded soldiers. The nurses were kept more than busy, learning on the job themselves as well as training volunteers.

But Rose did meet Maria’s sister, who was waiting in the lobby as they came off shift one Wednesday night.

‘Rose, this is Phoebe,’ said Maria. ‘Phoebe – Rose.’

‘Hello, Miss Gower.’ Rose held out her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Rose.’ Phoebe Gower grinned. ‘I’ve ’eard all about you. Maria said you was a governess?’

‘Yes, and now I’m going to be a nurse.’ Rose looked at the other girl, and saw she was nothing like Maria. Phoebe had crudely-bleached blonde hair, glittering dark eyes and a knowing grin that was nothing like Maria’s warm, engaging smile.

A short, tight hobble skirt revealed her slender, shapely ankles. A fitted jacket showed off her curvaceous bosom, and a tiny velvet hat sporting a feather at a jaunty angle drew attention to her heart-shaped face.

If she let her hair grow out into its natural brown, and wore clothes that enhanced her shape but didn’t emphasise it, she wouldn’t look half so common, Rose decided – then she blushed. I sound just like my mother she thought, embarrassed.

‘Do
you
work in a hospital?’ she asked.

‘God in ’eaven, no!’ said Phoebe, shuddering theatrically. ‘No, I couldn’t be doing with none of that. Anythin’ to do with blood an’ guts gives me the creeps.’

She smirked and preened. ‘I’m in the Varieties,’ she continued. ‘I started small, I was in the chorus for a while, but then I ’ad me break. I got me own act now, up the Haggerston Palace Music Hall – ain’t that right, Maria?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Rose saw a spasm flicker across Maria’s pretty face. ‘Phoebe and her friends are doing wonders for recruitment.’

‘Maria means I sings a song or two, shows the blokes me drawers, then they comes up on stage an’ takes the shillin’.’ Phoebe grinned again. ‘Yeah, I might not be much cop at bandagin’ an’ that, but I does me bit. Maria, I was wonderin’–’

‘Yes, you told me.’ Maria turned to Rose. ‘Do you think you could excuse us for a moment? Family business–’

‘Actually, I left my gloves upstairs.’ Rose smiled diplomatically. ‘I’ll just run up and fetch them.’

When she walked back into the lobby, Phoebe and Maria were deep in conversation. ‘You know I hate it when you take that stuff,’ she heard Maria mutter. ‘He shouldn’t make you work so hard, and
you
should have more sense–’

Then Phoebe noticed Rose and motioned to her sister to be quiet. ‘Got your gloves?’ she chirped, her eyes unnaturally bright.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Rose was blushing, wondering if they’d think she had been trying to listen to what they said. ‘Maria, I know we’d planned to have some supper, but I could go home by myself.’

‘No, wait for me, I’m coming now.’

‘But your sister–’

‘I’m just off.’ Phoebe dropped some coins into her bag. ‘Some of us ’as got to work tonight. Rose, it was nice to meet you. If you’re ever over Haggerston way–’

‘I shall be sure to come and see you,’ promised Rose.

‘Over my dead body,’ Rose thought she heard Maria say. ‘Rose, we were going to have some supper.’

‘Yes.’ Rose watched Phoebe mince away, sashaying down the hospital steps and off into the night. ‘Sister Hall was saying there’s a nice place near the station, where lots of nurses go. She said the food’s all right.’

Rose and Maria walked through the cold streets. These days they were full of men in khaki, officers and men. ‘Good evening, Sisters,’ said a captain, touching his hat to them as he walked by.

‘It’s strange how it takes a war to make men treat us with respect,’ murmured Maria. ‘If we’d met that man six months ago, he’d have thought we were a couple of tarts, looking for trade.’

‘Even though we’re nurses?’

‘Especially since we’re nurses,’ said Maria. ‘We’re not ladies, so we must be whores.’

Rose bit her lip and wondered – was Phoebe Gower a whore? She looked like one, and even Rose knew actresses were women of easy virtue, who often lived with men they hadn’t married.

Alex Denham’s mother was supposed to have been a whore. So had she had her hair bleached brassy yellow to the texture of dry straw, had she worn tight skirts that showed her figure, had she had a saucy grin and glittering dark eyes?

Alex Denham. Rose knew she should forget him, or at least consign him to the vault of memory, sealed inside a box along with other things and people she couldn’t think about, or she would cry.

‘A penny for them?’ said Maria.

‘What?’ Rose rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just tired.’

‘Do you want to go straight home?’

‘No, I want my dinner.’ Rose lengthened her stride. ‘Look, Oldham’s Supper Rooms – that must be the place.’

Rose was expecting trouble. But when she finally received a letter from her mother, there were no reproaches and no threats. Lady Courtenay didn’t even ask if Rose was coming home. She did mention Boris was pining for his mistress, plodding round the Minster howling and keeping everyone awake at night.

Poor Boris, Rose thought guiltily.
He
hadn’t tried to make her marry Michael or forbidden her to join the VAD.

She wrote back to her mother straight away, saying she was sorry for the anxiety she must have caused and promising to visit as soon as she could get away. But she also wondered why her mother wasn’t angry – or didn’t seem to be.

She found out soon enough. As she was doing dressings one morning, Sister Hall came up and said she had a visitor in the lobby.

‘I’ll see to Corporal Anderson,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Off you go, Miss Courtenay. You may have the rest of the morning off.’

Rose expected it to be her father, possibly with two policemen and a padded van. But when she walked into the lobby, determined to assert herself and resist arrest, she saw Michael Easton standing chatting to the porter. He was in the uniform of a second lieutenant in the Royal Dorsets, and looked very handsome.

‘Hello, Rose,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d come and see you.’

‘I hope you didn’t make a special journey?’ Rose hoped she looked braver than she felt.

‘No, of course not.’ Michael smiled urbanely. ‘I had to see my tailor and do other things in town.’

They took a cab to Piccadilly. As they drove along, Michael didn’t speak to Rose at all. He took her to a restaurant, where he ordered without asking what she wanted. He told the waiter that the lady would like a glass of wine.

‘Well, what a pretty pickle,’ he observed.

‘I’d rather you didn’t talk to me as if I were a child.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Michael’s blue eyes sparkled. ‘You’ve behaved like one.’

‘Michael, I don’t think–’

‘No one’s accusing you of thinking, Rose. Quite the reverse, in fact.’

Rose was about to answer back, but then she realised there was nothing to be gained from arguing with Michael. ‘I hope you didn’t worry,’ she said placatingly.

‘The woman I’ve asked to be my wife goes missing for a month, then sends a mysterious letter to her mother to say she’s well and happy, but isn’t coming home. Of course I didn’t worry.’

‘I’m sorry, Michael.’ Rose looked down at the tablecloth. ‘But you know they’d never have let me go, and I simply had to get away.’

‘I understand.’ Michael smiled, then nodded to the waiter. When he’d served their soup and backed away, Michael covered Rose’s hand with his, and held her gaze. ‘So is it what you’d expected?’ he enquired. ‘Do you find nursing interesting? Do you feel fulfilled?’

‘I feel I’m doing a useful job.’

‘As I’m sure you are – and having some experiences you wouldn’t get in Dorset on the side.’

Rose didn’t like the tone of that remark, but she was relieved to find he didn’t seem inclined to make a scene. As she dipped her spoon into her soup, it was suddenly obvious Michael hadn’t cared when she’d gone missing. She wondered if she ought to feel annoyed.

She waited for the ultimatum she was sure must come. She’d had her little adventure, he would say, and if she would go home with him tonight and resume the empty life she’d led before the war, they’d say no more about it.

But Michael didn’t speak. When he’d finished his soup he merely sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

‘Any news from Charton?’ Rose enquired.

‘No, not really.’ Michael shrugged. ‘Alex Denham married his – whatever she is, and he’s gone back to France.’

Rose felt her heart begin to thump. ‘I heard she was going to have a child,’ she murmured casually, as the soup slid down her throat like slime.

‘Yes, I believe that’s right.’ Michael’s eyes were on her, and she couldn’t look away. ‘Denham got himself blown up,’ he added, carelessly.

‘What?’ Rose gave up all pretence of eating. ‘When was this?’

‘Oh, months ago, long before he married whatsername.’ Michael pushed his empty bowl aside. ‘What’s the matter, Rose? You’ve gone quite red.’

‘It’s very hot in here.’ But she had to know. ‘What happened to him? I mean–’

‘He was in a cellar or something when the Germans bombed it and the walls caved in. Some fellows from the Norfolks dug him out. A few of his chaps were killed outright and most of them had injuries, but I believe our friend escaped intact.’

Michael’s gaze roamed over Rose’s face. ‘Well – more or less intact. He had bad concussion, but he’s still got his arms and legs and – things. He came home for a bit of leave and made an honest woman of his trollop, so now he’s a married man.’

Rose’s heart was hammering. She knew her face was scarlet. She tried to think of something innocent and conversational, some remark about the awful weather, but she couldn’t find anything to say.

‘They’re talking of turning Charton Minster into a convalescent home for officers,’ said Michael, suddenly. ‘If you’re still keen to do your bit, perhaps you could work there.’

Rose looked at him and saw it was a plot. But before she could say no, she meant to stay in London, the door of the restaurant opened and a gust of air blew in.

‘Well, I don’t believe it! ’Ello, Rose!’ Phoebe Gower was looking like a fashion plate. She wore a light wool dress and matching fur-trimmed coat in a flattering shade of silver grey, which suited her and took the strident brassiness out of her dyed hair, most of which was hidden by a velvet hat today.

Sauntering behind her was a sallow but good-looking man. In his middle thirties, he wore a cashmere coat draped round his shoulders and a smart, dark suit.

As he snapped his fingers and the head waiter scurried over, Phoebe smirked at Michael. ‘Well, you’re a deep one, Rose,’ she grinned. ‘I never knew you ’ad a feller, ’specially an ’andsome one like this! You goin’ to introduce us, then?’

Chapter Five

‘What was her name again?’ asked Michael, as he and Rose walked up the steps towards St Benedict’s.